


Smoke and Chains

by Magnetism_bind



Series: Smoking Remnants [1]
Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: AU, Alcohol Abuse, Banter, Bargaining, Blackmail, Confined/Caged, Dreams, Drunk molestation, Dubious Consent, Dubious Intentions, Electrical torture, Forced Orgasm, General Unpleasantness, Guilt, Humiliation, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Mention of Underage Sex, Mentions of rough sex, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Phone Sex, Public Masturbation, Q is not very nice at times, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Torture, Shaving Kink, Torture, Torture discussion, breaking and entering hehe, psychological abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-19 02:13:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 34,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnetism_bind/pseuds/Magnetism_bind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q is part of a research facility for a criminal organization. James Bond is a prisoner. </p><p>Q has some tests to run.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this promp here. http://007kinkmeme.livejournal.com/1142.html?thread=4470#t4470
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://tinypic.com?ref=2lcad06)  
> 
> 
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> 
> It's only dubious consent for the moment. Might veer into non-con territory at some point. Fair warning.

“That one.” Q’s forefinger taps against the screen over the row of faces. It’s merely a mental note to himself. He sees all the agents after they’re cleared for testing.

They’ve captured a handful of agents over the last few months, keeping them safely contained as they wait for orders from on high. It's only a research facility. All he’s doing is testing certain abilities and reactions before they decide what to do with the agents. There’s nothing about this agent that’s particularly spectacular except,

Except he does look good in his suit. And Q gets bored very easily. The Alps are hardly London. 

* * * 

Each of the captured agents goes through a set of routine preliminary tests before they reach his department. Q’s not impatient. Each group of tests is important; each agent equally important to the overall analysis. All the same he’s pleased when Bond is finally brought to him.

* * *

Bond looks around the room. It’s a lab of some sort. There’s a desk, files and papers stacked around the keyboard. There’s also a table in the corner with arm restraints. Bond glances at the door before going over to the computer. It’s locked. He has no idea what the password would be. 

“Please step away from the computer.”

Bond looks up to see a slender young man standing in the doorway. He hesitates before backing away from the computer, hands held up in mock surrender. 

The man skirts around him and sits down at the desk, nodding at the seat on the side of the desk. Bond takes it, wondering what the devil is going on. He should have snapped the little git’s neck when he was within reach. So why didn’t he?

The man clears his throat. “If I reported that, you’d be executed within a hour.” The risk is too great if one of the agents escapes. He should really report it.

“So why don’t you?” Bond’s casual tone is false. This is it. This is the end. 

“Give me a reason not to turn you back over to them.” The man’s fingers hesitate over the keyboard.

Bond smiles charmingly, the smile of a man who knows he’s going to his death. “Because I look good in a suit.” It’s a throwaway flirtation. 

He never expected it to work.

* * *

The torture is random and unpredictable. 

At least it isn’t dull. 

* * *

Q watches the tapes of Bond’s torture because it’s required, but he would have anyway. He can’t help the curl of pleasure in his groin at the abuse bestowed upon Bond’s half-naked torso. It’s not that he wants to cause the man pain exactly, or maybe it is. He’s certainly not above rewatching them because he likes the way Bond’s battered body looks as they wrench it this way and that. 

There’s just something about Bond that makes Q _want_. Even if he’s unsure about the nature of his wanting. He's never been attracted to an agent before. Perhaps this isn't attraction. Perhaps it's obsession, which is almost worse. Q doesn't need distractions. 

* * *

“They’re dealing with the first set.” Dr. Carter sets the file down. “Any special requests?”

“That one’s mine.” Q says hastily, plucking Bond’s file out of the pile. Not that he’s claiming Bond per se. It’s just that he’s not ready to see the man’s life pointlessly snuffed out. Not just yet. “We have tests we need to run.”

Dr. Carter gives him a look, but all he says is “Very well.”

* * *

“He’s taken a shine to you.” 

Bond blinks, uncertain of what to make of the guard’s comment? _Who?_

They take away his suit, and leave him loose gray sweatpants. At least it’s something.

His cell is constantly cold. Bond’s pretty sure they’re somewhere in the Alps. Which means that even if he could escape, there’s only snow and snow and snow. 

* * *

“Would you like a cigarette?” Q pushes the pack across the table towards him. They’re in a room with a table and two chairs, Q’s laptop and Bond seated across the table from him. 

Bond lifts his chained wrists and just stares at him. “Do you expect me to light it myself?”

“Of course. How foolish of me.” Q removes a cigarette, places it between Bond’s lips and then lights it. He watches Bond bite down on the butt briefly, before exhaling coolly. 

“What exactly are you trying to learn from me?” Bond asks, because he’s curious. Curious and almost a little unnerved by this floppy-haired young man with glasses, who looks nothing like what he’s come to expect from the enemy. 

“Anything.” Q says seriously. “Mostly I’m testing results.”

“What kind of results?” Bond takes another drag on his cigarette, the chains grating against each other. 

“That sort.” Q nods at the bruises along Bond’s bare chest. “How did it feel?”

“It hurt like hell.”

“What did you think?”

“I thought, ‘Bloody hell, I wish these fellows would stop punching me.” 

Q smiles slightly at Bond’s faux cheery tone. “What would you have done to them if you could?”

“Snapped their necks.”

Q makes a note of the response. “Without a second thought?”

“Of course.” 

“No remorse?” 

“Not sure I possess that particular emotion.” Bond tells him, flicking ash across the table. 

Q makes another note and looks at Bond over his laptop. “What would you do to escape?”

“You offering?” Bond blows smoke through his nose and gazes back at him levelly. 

“What?” It’s the first time Q has no idea what Bond is talking about.

“You. Me. Your desk. The floor. The wall. I don’t much care one way or another. Or do I have to fuck someone higher up to get out of this hellhole?”

Q clears his throat. “In all probability, yes.” It’s probably wrong that his brain is already calculating how to incorporate this into his tests. They’ve tried different methods of persuading agents to surrender secrets, how to break them efficiently, what it would take to turn them. Q’s never considered sexual means before. 

He feels somehow he’s missed something. 

Bond sucks on the end of his cigarette. “Pity.”

After that Q has them take Bond back to his cell, rather unsettled by the encounter. He’s not sure what to make of Bond. Perhaps he shouldn’t have kept the man off the execution list after all. Of course, he can always say the tests have failed, and Bond will be taken care of.

In the meantime, Q goes back to work.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [](http://tinypic.com?ref=25yvsc9)   
> 

“We’ll start with your name.”

“Get stuffed.” Bond is bored. Bored of the cold. Bored of the torture. Bored of this dull little game they’re playing with him. He wants to go home. He wants a drink. And he’d very much like to kill someone. Or fuck them. Either one.

Q eyes him thoughtfully, but keeps going. “You’re employed in the services of her majesty, are you not?”

“Whatever gave that away?” Bond drawls.

“It’s not precisely hard to work out.” Q already has Bond’s file of course. He’s read it twice. It’s an intriguing read.

“How long have you been in her employment?”

“Since I was recruited.” Bond yawns loudly.

“How do you find the work?”

“Highly enjoyable.”

“Do you consider it a difficult position?”

“I’m very flexible.” Bond smiles at him.

“I’m sure,” Q murmurs, “But irrelevant all the same.”

“Hardly.” Bond leans forward slightly. “Have you ever been fucked by someone who knew what they were doing?”

“My sexual activities are also irrelevant.” Q skims over the list of questions. He already knows the answers to each of them. The point of the exercise was to see how much information Bond would offer voluntarily. Apparently the answer was none.

Very well. He’d have to try a new tact.

“You’re so persistent with the sexual banter.” Q tells him. “I hope that means you’ll be more cooperative tomorrow.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bond asks.

Q doesn’t answer, leaving Bond alone to mull it over.

* * *

It’s a long night.

* * *

The next morning he’s returned to the same room. This time his wrists are handcuffed to the chair arms, and his ankles to each leg. After that a pair of delicate wires are attached to his temples, and more worryingly, a set of tubes are fastened to his cock and balls through the sweatpants. Bond wonders just how much protection the material will offer.

“Oh don’t worry about those.” Q enters the room and closes the door behind him. “They’re just to monitor your responses.”

“Responses to what?” Bond asks warily.

“These.” Q taps his folder cheerfully. “Please direct your attention to the wall in front of you.” He spent a fair portion of last night putting the collection together. As a result, his energy levels are running a little high. That might have also been due to the fact that he’s on his twelfth cup of tea.

“What do you see?” Q shows him the first slide. It’s a naked woman facing away from the camera.

“Naked woman.” An attractive naked woman, really, but Bond’s not in the mood for these games.

“And now?” The next slide shows the woman’s front.

“The same.”

Q shows him shots of couples fucking, women masturbating, women riding men, men handcuffed while women fellate them, men dominating women. Bond gives the same monotone answer, stating the bare facts regardless of the slide.

Q types _No physical response_ , trying to contain his disappointment. He reaches for his tea mug, and knocks a pen halfway across the room. Bond eyes it longingly. He could probably escape with that pen, and stab Q and then somehow turn it into a communication device.

Q sighs and goes over to pick up the pen. His back is towards Bond for a matter of seconds as he bends over.

“Can’t say I mind the view.” Bond says, trying to provoke a reaction, any reaction out of the man.

Q straightens up. “Just for clarification, was that remark aimed at the screen, or my posterior?”

“Which do you think?”

“I think you’re merely trying to provoke me.” Q slips the pen in his pocket.

“You can hardly blame me. You have a nice arse.”

“Do I?” Q thinks about this. “All my records indicate your sexual proclivities are usually directed towards the female sex. Would you say this interest in my arse is due to your isolation and lack of female companionship, or something as yet unexplored in your subconscious?”

Bond just stares at him. “You have records?”

“Of course.” Q’s insulted. Naturally he has records. “It would hardly be an effective study if I didn’t keep records on my subjects.”

“Is that what I am to you? A test subject?”

“Yes of course.” Q looks puzzled. “What else would you be?”

“A person. An object of lust. An enemy.” Bond shrugs. He doesn’t much care for being a test subject.

“Why would I consider you my enemy?” Q wants to know.

“Because I'd kill you at the first opportunity.”

“Really?” Q’s not truly surprised, merely interested. “That’s the job though. It doesn’t necessarily make us enemies.”

“I never said I considered you an enemy.” Bond states.

“Oh?” Secretly, Q’s pleased by this. He’s less pleased by what comes out of Bond’s mouth next.

“No, you’re merely an annoyance. An obstacle to be overcome.”

“I see.” Q types Bond’s words up without further comment.

“What exactly are you trying to do? Make me come in my pants or something like a schoolboy?”

“Would you find that humiliating or arousing?”

“It’s never happened to you?” Bond studies him. “Surely you could find some girl willing to stick her hand down your trousers.”

“I suppose I could,” Q sets his pen down. “If I were so inclined.”

“Not interested in girls, or uninterested in sex in general?”

“Sex can be very enjoyable.” As it so happens Q’s enjoyed his fair share. It’s simply hard to find a partner up to his standards.

“So you have had it then.” Bond’s mocking him.

“Once or twice.” Q can handle mocking. He glances over Bond’s file again. “Getting back to the schoolboy comment, describe your early education.”

“Dull.”

“Age at first sexual experience?”

“Define first.” Bond licks his lips and smiles.

Q takes a moment to reconsider. “Your first intense sexual experience then.”

Bond gazes at him. “It was with a girl from the local village. She showed me an abandoned crofter’s cottage, where she proceeded to give me my first blowjob.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“What do you think?”

“I should think that experience would be very memorable for a twelve-year-old.”

Bond’s eyes narrow.

“Or was it thirteen?” Q asks blandly.

“Twelve.” Bond doesn’t know how the man knows this. It has to be a lucky guess.

“What happened after she fellated you?”

Bond snorts derisively at the term. “You mean after she sucked my cock?”

“Yes. That.”

“What makes you think something happened after?”

Q takes a sip of tea. “Something pushed the experience from merely pleasurable to intense.”

Bond weighs his options. In the end he’s more interested in what Q will say than keeping the information private. “Halfway through, we were discovered by one of the schoolmasters who had seen me leave the school grounds. The girl was sent home, whereas I was taken back to the school and duly punished.” Bond shifts slightly in his seat.

“How?”

“Whipped by the headmaster. He used a reformatory cane. Rather painful as it happens.”

“You were still hard, weren’t you?”

“She didn’t have time to finish me off.” Bond answers.

Q waits.

“I came on the seventh stroke.” Bond says tonelessly. “The headmaster was very put out.”

Only then does Q smile.

* * *

He shows Bond a quick succession of women, all fitting similar types the man’s been known to sleep with, before switching to the next slide. It’s a shot of a man Bond killed in Kiev last year. The body’s flat on its back, eyes staring blankly. His chest is bloody, and the whole angle of the picture looks wrong.

‘ _How limp and still we go in death,_ ’ Q muses.

His screen buzzes, but he’s already gazing at Bond. It’s impossible to miss the twitch at his crotch. Q raises his eyes to see the man glaring at him.

Q does the same with the next sequence of photos. This time Bond’s more prepared, but he still reacts. He’s definitely getting hard, and there’s a slight hitch in his breathing pattern that Q finds very interesting indeed.

“Go on then,” Bond says unpleasantly. “What would you say to that?”

“I’d say you’re aroused by violence, and turned on by death, but you’re programmed to repress it. Most likely because someone probably told you it was unseemly at some point in your life. Despite that, the British government uses it to their advantage and profits from your talents and tastes.”

“You think I took this job because I get off on it?” Bond stares at him incredulously.

“Well, don’t you?” Q asks lightly.

Bond purses his lips and says nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

He’s aroused. That’s the bit Bond can’t stand. He’s actually fucking aroused by the whole thing. The quiet constant questions. The restraints keeping him in his place. The knowledge that Q is _watching_ him grow more and more aroused. At least he knows the man’s name now. One of the techs called him Q when he brought him another cup of blasted tea. 

Bond can’t help wondering what it stands for. 

* * *

When Q sends him back to his cell, after another few rounds of pornography and violence, endless, beautiful violence, some of which is Bond’s work, and some is merely the art of strangers, his legs ache and his cock feels heavy between his thighs. 

Bond knows there are cameras in his cell. He debates what to do about it. He could just wait until his erection dies down. That would be the sensible thing, but it’s the first time he’s felt alive in days. 

So he leans against the wall and sticks his hand down his sweatpants. 

Tugging his cock expertly between calloused fingers, Bond braces himself against the wall with one hand as he works. He wonders what Q will think when he watches this, and the youth _will_ watch it. Bond knows that much already. He slows his pace, knowing the camera is only getting his back, and the slight movement of his right shoulder as his arm works. He hopes that this will piss Q off considerably. 

When he’s close to completion, Bond nudges his sweatpants down just far enough to drag his cock out. He leaves his mess on the cell wall, but collects enough of it in his hand to walk over to the camera and fling it at the lens. 

* * *

Q swallows dryly as he watches the footage. 

“Turn around, you bastard.”

It’s like Bond can hear him and deliberately keeps his back turned to the camera to keep Q from, _oh_. 

Q sucks in his breath. Right. Well. He should have guessed Bond would do something like that. He watches silently as Bond turns back to the camera, sweatpants pulled into place already, unfortunately, but Q can make out that delicious curve of hipbone and he sighs quietly to himself. 

Then Bond throws his come right at the camera and smiles. 

And Q knows he’ll have to step it up. 

“At least I’m getting results.” He murmurs to himself. He wonders what it would be like if Bond had faced the camera. If he had seen every last stroke of the man’s hand upon his cock. His skin feels a little warm, and Q’s fingers itch to have another camera installed, so that he’ll catch every last angle of Bond in his cell. 

But he can’t let Bond think he’s getting to him because that would be unprofessional. 

* * *

So all he says at the start of their next session is, “I take it yesterday had some effect on you.” 

“Yes, you could say that.” Bond agrees. He shifts lethargically in his chains. “I don’t suppose I could have another cigarette.”

“Will you answer a question for it?” 

“Yes.” Bond’s smile is thin, “There. I just did.”

“Very amusing.” Q reaches into his pocket and draws out his cigarettes. He puts one in the corner of his mouth and lights it, cupping his hand carefully to let it catch. He walks it over to Bond and holds it in just in front of his lips. “Tell me. Why did you turn away from the camera?”

Bond holds his gaze. “Because I knew it would drive you mad.” 

“I see.” Q places the cigarette between Bond’s lips, his fingertips barely touching the man. 

“You have to earn my cock,” Bond says, sucking at the cigarette lewdly. He imagines he can taste Q upon it. 

Q’s answering smile is small, and amused. “I don’t actually.”

There. It’s in the open now. Bond had to have realized it before then. If he didn’t, he’s less intelligent than Q gives him credit for. Q could do whatever he liked, whenever he liked, and no one would stop him. It’s that simple.

Bond’s teeth tighten on the cigarette. “Go on then.”

“The fact that one could, doesn’t mean one has any desire for such an activity.” Q tells him, plucking the cigarette from his mouth. Bond bites at his fingers and Q shakes his head. 

“You’re very childish sometimes.”

“Says the child.” Bond says sullenly.

“I’m not a child.” Q tells him flatly. To prove it he presses the cigarette against Bond’s chest. It’s just for an instant, and it doesn’t prove anything. Children can be just as cruel as adults, Q certainly knows this, but Bond shudders with the pain and there’s a small round burn in his fair skin when Q pulls the cigarette away.

The amount of satisfaction Q feels is rather surprising. He returns to his desk where he stubs out the cigarette and makes a note in his file. 

“Perhaps you’re less the sadist, and merely the masochist.” He says aloud. 

“Why don’t you untie me and let’s see?” Bond suggests. There’s a ragged note in his voice that’s promising.

“Hardly productive.” Q scratches the bridge of his nose and keeps typing. 

“Why not?”

“You’d kill me the moment your restrains were removed, the guards would then proceed to kill you, and all my research would have been for nothing.” He looks up at Bond thoughtfully. “Would it be quick and painless, or long and drawn-out?”

“Oh, I’d make you feel it.” Bond licks his lips and tries to steady himself. _What is this boy doing to him?_

Q flips through the notes he’d made. “How long after your first kill until you next had sex?”

“I fucked someone exactly three hours later.” Bond sifts through the memories. “I was waiting for my flight home, adrenaline was pumping through my veins. There was this woman in the airport bar. We fucked in the toilets. It was quick and satisfying, and overall what they tend to call, sordid." _There_ , he thinks. _Now leave me alone._

“Did it help?” Q asks with genuine interest.

“Sorry?”

“With the adrenaline.” 

“Oh.” Bond tries to think back. “Yes, a little bit.” 

“At what age did you start masturbating?” 

Bond shifts in his seat uncomfortably. His tongue slides along the top of his teeth. “I was seven.”

“Were you ever told not to, by a parent, teacher, guardian perhaps?”

Bond looks at him sharply then. 

Q merely drinks his tea and waits. He has all the time in the world. 

“I need to piss.” Bond says finally. 

“When you’ve answered the question.” Q is patient. 

“So you’re perfectly fine with me pissing myself?”

“I think you have slightly more control than that. Just answer the question, 007.” 

It’s a slip. Bond’s eyes narrow. It’s the first time Q’s said it aloud, and it’s like a candle flare in the dark. Q berates himself silently for the error. Never address the agents by their former names or titles. 

“My father caught me once.” Bond’s voice is so low Q has to strain to hear the words. “He gave me strict instructions that I was to never do such a thing again. ‘Gentlemen didn’t’.” He laughs hoarsely. 

“Then what?” Q’s intent upon his face, his body language. Every nuance of the man’s confession is being filed away for later scrutiny.

“When my parents died, I hid. In the dark. Away from anyone else. My first thought was, they weren’t there to stop me.” Bond shakes his head slightly at the recollection. “So I kept wanking off and feeling smug because they were dead, and couldn’t stop me.” He looks up at Q with eyes of ice cold loathing. “So shove that up your arse and go fuck yourself.”


	4. Chapter 4

This time, Q has them leave the cuffs on when they return Bond to his cell. Bond pulls at them pointlessly. His hands are restrained behind his back. He laughs silently. So this is Q’s revenge for not facing the camera. _Naughty boy. No touching yourself._

The humor is lessened by the fact that he still has to relieve himself.

“Hey.” Bond faces the camera. “Hey. I answered the bloody question. Now let me piss in peace.” 

Nothing.

“You fucking arsehole.” Bond says plainly. He’d flip the camera off if he could. 

He manages to hold it for another hour, and then the stain spreads across the crotch of the sweatpants, and down his leg. Bond sits in the corner of the room, facing the camera with his knees wide apart. 

* * *

The next morning the cuffs are removed and he’s taken to a tiled room with a shower, and a chain attached to the grate in the floor. They fasten the chain around Bond’s ankle, turn the water on and leave. 

At first it’s satisfying to be clean. Bond scrubs at his skin with his fingertips, turning evenly under the showerhead so that no matter where Q’s positioned the camera this time, he can’t avoid seeing Bond in all his glory. Let him drool over that for a spell.

But then he’s ready for the shower to be over, and the water keeps going. Bond can’t reach the shower controls though he strains to do so. The water grows colder, shifting from warm to lukewarm, until it’s just flat cold. Bond moves as far out of reach of the spray as possible, but it still sprinkles his skin. He starts shivering, the chilly water seeping down the back of his neck to the slope of his back. The air grows colder with each passing moment. 

Bond draws his knees up to his chin and wraps his arms around them. 

“You’ve made your point.” He shouts, teeth chattering. “I don’t know what the hell it was, but it’s made.”

There’s no answer, and he rests his head on his arms as the water continues to fall. 

* * *

Bond is shivering uncontrollably when he’s removed from the room. He’s dragged along the corridor, not to Q’s office or the room where he was shown the slides. It’s a new room and it’s _warm_. That's all that matters.

Bond’s dropped there on the floor and left. He’s still shivering, trying to rub at his skin, but his fingers don’t work. 

“Here.” There’s a blanket draped over him, and Bond clutches at it gratefully.

Q steps back, watching him. 

“Am I supposed to thank you?” Bond manages. He’s still so cold, but his skin’s tingling now. He’s starting to feel his hands and feet again. 

“If you like.” Q moves away, and then returns with a mug. He crouches by Bond and holds it out to him. “Here.”

Bond pulls himself into a kneeling position, wincing at the pain shooting through his knees. He takes the mug, and takes a cautious sip. It’s clear, hot soup; it’s delicious. Bond gulps it down, not caring about the burn in his throat.

“Careful.” Q admonishes. 

Bond ignores him. He finishes the soup in a long, quick swallow. It trickles down his chin, and he raises his hand to wipe at it distractedly. Bond knows what this. Knows Q can’t fool him into thinking he’s here to help. Q’s the one doing this. 

His limbs still ache. He’s sluggish when he moves, but Bond still launches himself at Q, bringing the mug down hard against the young man’s skull. Q rolls out of the way, so the mug only catches part of his head. There’s still a satisfying smack. Then Bond is on him, pinning him to the ground. Q struggles, trying to get a knee between Bond’s legs, but even in this state, the agent is powerful.

His hands close around Q’s neck. 

Then the door bursts open and guards swarm in. They all have guns, each and every last one pointed at Bond. His hands tighten for a second, and then Bond sits back, raising his hands in surrender.

“Get off him.” 

Bond silently moves off Q, who scrambles to his feet. He looks tousled, clothes in disarray. He straightens his glasses and stares down at Bond with an unreadable expression. 

_Now_ , Bond thinks. _Now, they’ll shoot me_. He’s ready for it. 

Instead Q merely looks at him, and says, “Take him back to his cell.”

Bond is returned to the cell, where they force him to lie on his belly on the floor as they chain his hands and ankles behind his back. He’s left like that, naked and trussed for the night.

* * *

Q touches his throat gingerly. Bond could have killed him back there.

So why didn’t he?

He doesn’t even try to pretend to himself that he wasn’t aroused by that brief moment where Bond straddled him. 

His head aches painfully. Q holds the ice pack to it, but there’s going to be swelling regardless. 

At the same time, he’s almost glad the incident happened, even if he has to write up an extra report about it. When they took Bond out of the shower, he’d been worried. Supposing he’d left him there too long?

Q shakes his head, and winces as pain shoots through it. He leans back against the wall and sips a small brandy. It’s the sort of night where he’d like to go for a nice long walk, but he can’t do that here. 

There are times when Q wishes he worked somewhere else. As fascinating as this job was, the freedoms that he’s allowed, it’s still very far away from the rest of the world. Sometimes Q misses the world.


	5. Chapter 5

Q can’t sleep. His throat’s still too raw. At last he makes himself a cup of tea with the kettle he keeps in his room for when he doesn't feel like going to the communal kitchen.

Then since he's already up and he might as well, he goes to his computer and brings up the footage of Bond in the shower. This time Q can see everything. There’s something smug about the set to Bond's shoulders as though he knew Q would do this, sit there watching the way Bond turns his body this way and that under the spray. Water courses down his skin, and Q catches his breath at the sight of it.

The man is a weapon, pure and simple, the scars on his flesh attest to that. Crudely fashioned, yet there’s something magnificent about him all the same.

Q’s hand snakes down to pull his cock free from his pajamas, eyes still focused on Bond, drinking in the sight of him. The slope of his shoulders. His back, broad and muscular. His arse, _good god_.

Q’s grip tightens as his hand moves faster, tongue caught between his teeth. 

Bond’s cock is listless for once, but that doesn’t detract from its beauty. The times Q has imagined slipping his hand over Bond’s length, running his hand over Bond’s thighs.

He aches with want, his needy cock thrusting frenziedly through his fingers, until he comes with a cry. 

Q sits there, his come drying on his hand and watches Bond start to shiver. If he zoomed in close enough, he knows he could see the gooseflesh on the man’s skin. His cock makes a half-hearted twitch, and Q sighs. 

He cleans himself up and goes back to bed.

* * *

Nothing for two days. 

When Bond’s finally released from the cuffs, he stretches, paces the length of the cell, does push-ups and sit-ups until he’s sweating. He still can’t erase the feeling of Q’s throat under his fingers. 

If they were going to kill him, they’d have done it already. That means they’re most likely arranging more tests.

Bond’s never liked tests, school exams, anything of the sort. It’s a sign of how much he wants to work at MI6 that he doesn’t throw in the towel every time he has to retest for fieldwork. It would so be easy to give up.

But this, this game, whatever the hell Q's doing to him. Bond doesn't know what to make of this.

All he knows is the questions will be personal and of a strangely disconnected yet erotic nature. If sexual questions delivered in such a clinical fashion could be considered erotic. 

* * *

The third day, Bond is collected and taken back to what he’s labeled the Theatre. Q’s already seated behind his desk, sipping from his erstwhile mug. Belatedly, as Q’s eyes sweep over him, Bond realizes he’s still naked. After the shower, his sweat pants had not been returned.

They restrain Bond as usual in the chair, only this time the tubes are attached straight to his bare cock and ball sac. The hands touching him are impersonal and fleeting.

Q watches casually. 

“Today we’re going to try something a little different.”

Bond doesn’t bother answering.

* * *

This time whenever he sees a picture that makes his breathing, heartbeat, or his cock show the slightest amount of interest there’s a quick jolt to his genitals. Too painful to be purely pleasurable, but just intense enough to veer into a perverse pleasure.

By the time Q’s done, Bond’s thighs are slick with sweat, and he’s hard, achingly hard. Hands clenched against the chair arms, his skin’s clammy and he _wishes_ –

He wishes he’d pressed a little harder with his fingers.

He wishes it would end.

He wishes Q would touch him. Just once.

“Are you uncomfortable?” Q’s eyes are on his keyboard.

“On the contrary, this is always how I like to spend my Sundays.”

“If that’s an attempt to find out what day it is, it’s poorly played.”

“You could always just tell me.” Bond suggests. He wonders if MI6 is even looking for him. Maybe M’s finally decided he’s just too much trouble. He wouldn’t put it past her. If that’s the case Bond can let it go and focus on goading Q until the dam breaks and he’s swept away by the consequences.

“I’ll make a bargain with you.” Q sits back. “You manage not to come in the next five minutes and I’ll tell you the date.”

“Doesn’t sound so hard.”

The next jolt to his cock makes him jerk violently in the chair, and is entirely too much on the pleasure side of pain. Q does it again, and again, and again.

“Fuck.” Bond swears succinctly. He’s not going to make it. Or maybe he is. Bone white knuckles against the chair. He thinks dull things, paperwork, being stuck in a train station, having to train for his first assignment. He focuses on the minutia of things, and the minutes tick by. It works.

He’s still achingly hard, but he hasn’t come.

Q almost looks impressed. 

“It’s Tuesday, March 22nd.” He tells Bond. His hands hesitate near the trigger. Bond longs for him to touch it _pleasepleaseplease_ , so much it feels like a prayer inside his mind. He’s dying here; let him come already, just let him come.

“Did I mention that if you held out for the five minutes, you’re not allowed release for the day?”

Bond stares blankly for a minute, then just starts laughing, shaking his head. “No, you didn’t mention that.”

“I suppose that wasn’t fair.” Q almost looks contrite. 

Bond just laughs more. He’s starting to feel hysteria inching along the edge of his brain.

“Are you all right?” Q asks. 

“I’d be a sight better with your mouth on my cock.”

Q doesn’t say anything to that. He just switches the projector off and walks over to examine Bond’s predicament, hands in his pockets. 

“Like your work?” Bond’s breath is tight, his tongue dry in his mouth. He’s so goddamn sensitive he feels like he’s going to shatter. All Q has to do is touch him. He wills it to happen. _Just touch me. That’s all. Touch me._

“Fascinating.” Q murmurs. “What’s the longest you’ve ever gone without climaxing?”

The term makes Bond wince, and laugh simultaneously. “I have no idea.”

As an afterthought, he realizes that was probably the wrong thing to say.


	6. Chapter 6

Q goes through a new round of pictures. Only this time there’s no charge to Bond’s groin. 

The effect is the same. Bond’s still expecting it, tensing every time he sees a shot that makes him more aroused. Women straddling men. Men fucking women from behind. Men fucking men, legs splayed wide. Close-ups of lips and tongues, cocks and cunts. Bond’s lightheaded, warm all over. He doesn’t know how long it’s been. Hours? Pinpricks of sweat blossom on his chest. His balls are tight and heavy. 

“Your stamina is impressive.”

“This?” Bond rasps. “This is nothing. You should see me when I have something to work with.”

“Perhaps I will.” Q makes a note.

“Is that a proposition, Q?” Bond raises his eyebrow. Distractedly, he imagines what Q looks like post-orgasm. Christ, he’s even beginning to phrase things like the man.

“What?” Q’s startled. “No. Simply that we have other test subjects,” He trails off at Bond’s expression.

“Fuck off.” Bond's still aroused, but now his sweat is cold. He wants nothing to do with this game. The idea’s fucking repulsive. Even the possibility that Q would attempt to make him do such a thing makes him ill.

“I take it you have an objection to that.”

“You take it correctly.” Bond looks at him levelly. “Do whatever you want to me, but leave other people out of it.” He won’t be responsible for other people’s pain. 

Q thinks about that. “So what would you do to avoid such a prospect?”

Bond doesn’t deign to look at him. He won’t discuss this, doesn’t want any part of it. His head throbs, and he wishes Q would finish with him already. 

_How long? How long can it continue? How long can Q prolong it? Surely Q will grow bored with him soon._

Bond blinks and lets his eyes close for a moment. 

Q considers this. He looks at Bond, studying him. 

“Tired?”

“Exhausted.” Bond refuses to open his eyes. Q already knows he’s weak. What good does it do to pretend anymore? The darkness is peaceful. He keeps his eyes closed, but he can sense Q moving around the room. 

“If you could go anywhere in the world,” Q’s voice seeps through his thoughts. “Where would you go?”

Bond’s gut clenches with longing. “London.”

“Really?" Q's interested in this. "With the whole world to choose from?”

“London,” Bond repeats more firmly. March, Q said it was March. London in early spring, light rain drizzling on the street. The parks covered with fresh greenery. He can picture it with his eyes closed. Hell, he can practically smell it.

“Why London?”

Bond swallows. “After my parents died, I spent the next few years at boarding school. During the holidays my uncle would have me collected and taken to his town house in London. He was always busy with work, and I was left to my own devices, most of which included exploring the city.” Bond sighs, and opens his eyes, looking at Q tiredly. “I know, I know. I’m trying to paint an unhappy childhood with a nostalgic glow.” 

Q smiles faintly. “Is that the sort of thing I say?”

“What do you think?”

“I think, London sounds nice.” 

* * *

The night is excruciating. Bond paces, does sit-ups as best he can with his hands yet again cuffed behind his back. He watches his cock bobs fitfully against his belly as he does. Nothing relieves the agonizing pressure.

Bond sinks down to a crouch, leaning his head against the cell wall. When he finally sleeps, he dreams of Q. 

Slender fingers exploring his skin. In his dreams Q’s hands are everywhere. They dance along the back on Bond’s thighs, smoothing over the curve of his hip to the taut pull of his stomach, up his chest, where Q leans into Bond, mouthing wetly at his nipples. Bond lets him until he can no longer hold back. Slamming Q up against the wall, he shoves the man’s legs apart, pushing into him violently. Q bites hard on his shoulder and Bond wakes with a start, shuddering. 

There’s a bead of pre-come leaking from the tip of his cock. Bond groans, shifting his legs gingerly. He can’t help wondering how long it will be before he breaks completely and begs Q for the briefest touch.

* * *

Q thinks about the conversation while he eats his dinner absentmindedly, scrolling through endless files on his laptop. It’s a tempting prospect, to push Bond to the very extent of his limits. Would the man truly balk at fucking another subject? Or would he succumb? 

He pushes his glasses up on his forehead tiredly. Then there’s the way Bond spoke of London. How his voice softened, as though it were something he loved. Q's not a betting man, but if he were to ever place a bet, he’d wager that a portion of Bond’s heart is claimed by London. 

Q’s lived in New York. He’s lived in Rome, Istanbul, and Prague. He’s lived in London and a little town in Germany that had terrible internet reception.

Overall, Q prefers London. 

This tiny facility in the Alps is confining. He doesn’t have enough space to outline all his thoughts like he usually does. If he had more space, he would have already figured Bond out. Q’s fairly certain of this. 

He needs more space.

But right now, he has tests to run, and forms to fill out, and at some point he should really look into another career path because this test operation is going to run its course and then what? What’s next? Q knows there are an endless variety of options for someone with his talents; it just has to be something that interests him.

Sometime he wishes it were easier to find that particular something.

It never is.

He just has to finish this job, and then decide what to do next. Somewhere other than the fucking Alps. 

Bond doesn’t feature in this decision. Q can’t decide on a future where Bond _could_. It doesn’t matter. Bond has no relevance in his life after this period of time. Q tells himself this, even as he knows it’s a lie.

Only seven agents have made it through the intensive rehabilitation process. Q’s only handled four of them. He’s still relatively new to the finalizing process. It takes a lot of work, and most agents fail halfway through the exercises. 

Bond is special.

Even if Q doesn’t want to admit it. 

He wants the man to succeed so he has an excuse to keep him around longer. That’s the basic conscious reason he’s allowed himself to consider. After that there’s the simplest reason of all. Q’s not prepared to let Bond go. Not yet.


	7. Chapter 7

Q chews on the end of his pen, checking his list. 

Bond yawns. It's been nearly forty minutes and so far Q hasn't said anything. He wonders if he could doze. He thinks it's morning; it feels like morning. Bond's not too sure any more.

“Can you masturbate?” Q breaks the silence, then hastily adding, “If I let you, obviously,” before Bond can complain about the chains once again.

Bond just looks at him blankly. “What’s the point?”

“The point?” Q repeats. “I thought you’d welcome it by now.”

“By now, I couldn’t give a monkey’s toss if I ever get off again.” It’s a lie, but Bond’s exhausted. He can’t stop thinking about what Q said; the obscene thrill that chased up and down his spine at the man’s suggestions, despite his abhorrence. Nor can he stop dweling on last night’s dreams. It’s entirely too easy to picture Q in the positions of his subconscious desire. 

“Could you masturbate to save someone’s life?” Q asks interestedly. 

Bond stares at him. “What kind of sick game are you playing here?”

Q leans back in his chair. “If I gave you the choice of masturbating to save someone’s life or not, which would you choose?”

“That’s not a bloody choice!” Bond bursts out. “That’s,” He strains at his handcuffs. He has to get out of here. He’s going mad. This place, this _man_ is driving him mad.

Q reaches for his mug and takes a sip, then makes a face at the tea. It’s gone cold. “It is a choice. You’re not required to do something. The other subject wouldn’t even be from your country.”

“They’re still a human being.” Bond says tersely.

“Of course.” Q raises an eyebrow. “Nobody’s implying otherwise.”

“No,” Bond shouts. “You’re simply acting like we’re less than human.”

Q’s eyebrow goes even higher. He stands and walks slowly over to stand next to Bond. 

Bond glares up at him. “Someday you’re going to regret this.”

“Do you truly think so?” Q moves to stand beside Bond’s right shoulder, placing his hand over Bond’s nipple. 

Bond shivers again as Q’s nail scrapes painfully over the nub. “Yes. I do.”

“We'll see.” Q twists Bond’s nipple sharply. "Won't we?"

Bond exhales harshly, choking back a moan. He arches into that touch before he knows what he’s doing, straining towards Q, any contact at all. Q’s fingers wring his nipple, and Bond comes with a raw cry.

 _There_. Bond gasps. _It’s done. It’s done._ He’s done. Christ, he’s done. Now the ache in his balls is pure relief. He’s so fucking sore; there are tears at the corners of his eyes. 

Q stands back. “Well, that was,” he gazes at the mess splattered across Bond’s belly and thighs. “Messy.”

He fetches a handkerchief and cleans Bond off briskly. Bond sits there, just watching him, trying not to tremble at the feel of the soft cloth brushing across his skin.

To Bond’s dismay, when Q’s finished he tucks the handkerchief away before going over to the trolley that holds the machine. Q brings it over, unrolling the cords carefully. This time it’s his fingers that attach the tubes to Bond’s temple and groin, his fingers moving over Bond’s sensitive skin. 

Bond shivers. “Why?” What he wants to say is _please_.

Q barely glances at him. “The day’s young.” 

Bond’s teeth clench. “You fucker.”

“Come, come,” Q’s hand brushes over his thigh and then he straightens up. “You can do better than that.” 

“Vicious little _fuck_.” Bond spits. 

Q sighs, and starts the pictures again.

* * *

Bond had honestly thought it couldn’t get worse. He’d been wrong of course.

There's not an inch of his body that doesn't ache. Each charge sends a fresh wave of agony through him. His skin feels brittle, too tight, too thin over bone. His nipple throbs painfully from Q’s ministrations. Who knew the little bugger had it in him? 

Bond wants to sleep. Instead he stares dully at the screen as the photos pass by. If he looks away, there’s a perfunctory jolt. He figured that out quickly enough. 

This time it’s bodies. Killings he’s been involved in, kills he may have caused, all the death on his hands. It’s a frightening look into how much Q knows about him despite Bond’s refusal to answer questions about MI6. How does he know?

“There is a talent to this, I suppose,” Q muses. “But your kills lack style.”

“I’m sorry I’ve not been more creative.” Bond remarks. “I’ll have to see to it in the future.” 

“Please do. I do hate dull work.”

“That’s why you like me,” Bond thinks, only he doesn’t think it. He says it aloud.

“Pardon.” 

“You think I’m interesting. Fascinating even.” It’s a thought Bond is curiously warmed by. 

“I never said I didn’t.” Q says matter-of-factly. “You’re,” He pauses.

“Yes?” Now Bond’s intrigued. It’s something. At least it distracts him from the pain. 

“Unique.” Q finishes. “For all your training, similarities to other agents, you are by far,” he shouldn’t say any of this to Bond. It’s dangerous. He’s not allowed to say things like this to Bond.

“Unique.” Bond smiles faintly. “That’s one word I suppose.”

Q studies him, the withdrawing interest, the detached set to Bond’s shoulders. “You don’t believe it.”

“What?”

“No matter how well you do your job, you don’t think it’s good enough.”

“I’m good at my job.”

“But not enough.” Q realizes.

“You’re right. Of course you’re right. I’ve always felt inadequate.” Bond sneers. 

“Hardly that.” Q smiles. “How do you feel?”

“Lacking.”

“I mean now. Here. In this moment.”

“Oh.” Bond thinks about that. He’s on edge, skittering along a precipice. His lips are red, raw, bitten through. He knows Q has focused on them once or twice. Every time Bond licks them, it stings afresh. 

Bond decides on the basics. “My cock hurts.”

“I’m sure.”

“Of course you’re sure,” Bond’s tone is short, “You’re the one doing it.” There’s no use in pretending, even to himself, that Q’s not the one doing it. Yes, perhaps it’s at the behest of his superiors, but he’s still doing it. Doing it willingly, enthusiastically, innovatively. 

“Would you rather someone else question you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Bond glances at him. “Because I wouldn’t dream about someone else.”

Q pauses, “You dream about me.” He hadn’t considered that.

Bond nods.

“Why, how?” He takes a breath. “What transpires in these dreams?” 

_Tell him. Don't tell him. Tell him._ “You're on your knees, jaw practically split open taking my cock. Spit and come running out of your mouth. You want me to stop, and I never do.”

There’s a dull flush to Q’s cheeks or is Bond imagining that? He can’t decide, pressing on.

“I fuck you in a variety of positions. You resist. There’s always this pressure, having to hold you down as I enter you. Making you feel it.” Bond licks his lips and winces. This time Q is definitely watching.

“How do the dreams end?”

“Usually you’re full of my come, one way or another.”

“But, do you kill me?”

Bond blinks. “No.” Not once has he dreamed about killing Q, despite how the thought lingers during his waking hours. Even when the sex inevitably turns violent, it never ends with Q’s death. It’s curious that. 

“I see.” Q leans back. “Do I always resist, in these dreams?”

“For the most part.”

Why did he even bring it up? What was there to gain by telling Q his ridiculous dreams? Now the man would only use them to torment Bond further.

Q remains silent. Then he turns the screen on and Bond starts. He knows the woman on the screen. His entire body surges with recognition, with remembrance, guilt, and lust. 

Q eyes him, and flicks the charge. Three times, in quick succession.

Bond shouts at the top of his lungs, clenching his hands tight against the chair arms as his cock spasms helplessly. He comes violently, against his will, to the picture of the only woman he has ever loved.

* * *

His torso is exhausted, strained and limp and spent. Bond squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t look at her. Abruptly, he’s cold. He has to clench his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.

Q merely sits there watching him for a little while before he finally stirs.

Bond keeps his eyes closed as Q detaches the wires from his temples. There’s a light brush of a fingertip across his eyebrow, and then Q’s hands move over his genitals. Bond hisses sharply. The pain is agonizing. Q seems to be taking his time, but Bond refuses to open his eyes. The fingers linger on his pained skin, and then they’re gone.

The guards take him back to his cell. This time they take the cuffs with them. 

Bond curls up in the corner of the cell, unable to stop the incoherent thoughts tormenting him. _Aching, waves of shame, that they could use Vesper like that, that Q could do that, disgust, failure, no wonder M hasn’t come for him, she’ll leave him here forever, leave him at Q’s tender mercies._

This time Bond can’t silence the tears. Sobs rack his frame. Q’s stripped him raw.


	8. Chapter 8

Q showers quickly. The heat of the water does little to dispel the chill in the air. He’s tired of the cold, ready to wake up somewhere where he doesn’t feel he’s going to freeze every single day if he doesn’t wear enough clothing. Switching off the shower, he reaches for his towel. As soon as he’s dry, he pulls on pajamas, grateful for the warmth.

It’s late. He has to compile a report on the progress of this set of agents. It’s half written in his head already, but he should focus and finish it. He makes himself a fresh cup of tea and gets down to it.

As he works, Q hears the words again and again. The soft touch to Bond’s voice as he spoke the words. 

_Make you feel it_. It’s the same phrase Bond used about killing him.

It shouldn’t arouse him. Q knows this. But it does. Something about it short-circuits his brain and makes him unbearably, ridiculously aroused. It’s all mixed up together, and really he’s one to judge Bond for his fucked up levels of lust and violence. 

Not that he judges. Q doesn’t rate people by society’s methods of acceptance. He simply knows how it works. Bond had lucked out in finding a career that let him balance those levels while satiating them. On the other hand, his superiors had definitely exploited him. 

At last he sets his computer aside. The report will have to wait. 

He stretches out on his bed, eyes closed. _Make you feel it_.

How would Bond do it? Would it be slow and dangerous, one infinite moment at a time? Q’s seen Bond’s hands, imagined how they would feel pressed against his skin. His throat’s felt the threat in Bond’s hands. He doesn’t have to imagine that part. 

Q touches his neck, remembering. Bond straddling him, gazing down at him. In that instant, the way Bond looked at him, Q had gazed into his eyes, and seen death. It was in that instant that he’d wondered what it would be like to kiss Bond. The man’s lips were rough and worn, split and bloody when Q was done with him for the day.

Q wants those lips.

* * *

Bond dreams again that night. 

These dreams are muddled, merely a chorus of images that run together and vanish before he can focus and make sense of them. A woman laughing on a beach. Pale, soft breasts under his fingertips as he leans down to kiss his way across from nipple to nipple. Water, running cool over his skin. Bloody fists, cracked knuckles. Salt in his mouth, as blood fills it. A whisper in his ear, words he can’t make out. A tongue licking across his lips, tasting sweet, like vanilla and rum. 

Then there are hands pressing tightly on his scars, until his heart is pounding and his cock fully hard. Bond blinks, and there’s laughter at the corners of his mind. They’re Q’s hands, he’s sure of that, but then they fade away into smoke – everything is burning. The acrid smell sharp in his nostrils, as the smoke billows out of the windows that he can’t find.

He wakes from the dream, half hard and mouth dry. Bond lies there in the dark, sighing quietly to himself. 

* * *

The next day is slow and blurred. No one comes for him. There’s food slotted into his cell and fresh water, but other than that no contact with anyone. No Q. No conversation. No arousal, no torment.

What is he supposed to do with this time? There is nothing in this space. Nothing at all.

There are no windows anywhere that Bond’s seen. They could be underground, but he doesn’t think so. One door leads to another hallway that has two guards on duty. Definitely in the Alps, but beyond that, he’s not learned anything concrete, nothing that will get him out of here.

He’s wasting his time and growing weaker. They feed him, take care of his bodily needs, but there’s something about this place, something about Q, Bond knows he has to get away. Soon.

Bond works out, pushing himself till his muscles ache. He thinks about jacking off, before they can cuff him again, but Q would only come up with something new.

He doesn’t touch himself. The urge is gone. There’s no impetus, nothing. 

There are no windows.

There’s only the cold to go by.

Bond used to like the cold when he was a child. Playing on the hills, high above his parents’ house. He’d stay out until the wind had chilled him straight through. Even then his mother had had to send the groundskeeper after him to bring him home. He’d never wanted to go. The way the wind made him feel, every breath drawn in the cold made him alive.

When he was older the cold didn’t touch him. He didn’t much care one way or another as long as he was somewhere warm, and there was someone to hold in his arms.

Bond doesn’t like the cold any more.

He cracks his neck, trying to ease the tension. Nothing helps. His body feels old. _He_ feels old. Old and tired and worn. 

What does his body look like to someone like Q? What does Q truly see when he looks at Bond? Does he see a broken wreck of a man? Something to be molded, changed, reformed? Merely a test subject to poke and prod at?

“How long have I been here?” Bond wonders. They shaved him when he was first brought here, and a second time before Q started his games. Now there’s several days’ worth of scruff covering his jaw again. It rasps when he brushes his hand across his cheek.

He drags his tongue over his lips. They still ache, and he remembers the previous day all too vividly. When he closes his eyes Bond can see the photograph. Her eyes stare back at him. 

“It doesn’t do her justice.” Bond murmurs to himself. Black and white, so still. It didn’t have her radiance. 

He rubs his hand over his jaw blearily. Great, now he was talking to himself. 

Bond glances at the camera. “I suppose it’s too much to ask for a drink.”

He’d kill for a whiskey.

He’s really fucking tired of the cold.


	9. Chapter 9

“Is there anything you’d like before we get started?” Q asks, drinking his third cup of tea. They’re getting a late start, but he’s hoping Bond will be cooperative today. 

After the last session, Q had gone back and read through his file again. His guess had been correct. Vesper Lynd had had quite the effect on Bond. He wonders if Bond hates him for it. 

“I’d like a shave.” Bond says off-handedly.

Q considers, then gets up. 

For the first time he leaves Bond alone in the room. Not that it matters. He’s still handcuffed. All the same, Bond takes the opportunity to look around the room, judging the distance from his chair to Q’s desk. The computer he can neither reach nor get into even if he could reach it.

Q returns with a small trolley. He wheels it over to stand beside Bond. On it there's a tray containing a brush, a bowl of water, a towel, shaving cream, and a razor.

Bond’s pulse quickens. 

He gazes at Q as he soaps the brush. The bristles tickle Bond’s skin as Q soaps his face carefully.

“Please hold still.” Q sets the brush aside and picks up the razor. “This is the first time I’ve ever done this for anyone else.”

Bond holds very still indeed. Q’s left hand holds his jaw as he scrapes the razor along Bond’s cheek. The blade is as light as a feather.

“You’re very good at this,” Bond murmurs.

“I prefer an electric razor,” Q tells him, “But this one was more readily available.” He cuts another swath through the shaving cream. “I’m told it once slit the throat of a Russian general.”

Bond smiles. “Are you trying to impress me?”

“Not particularly.” Q’s fingers are brisk as they turn his face this way and that. 

“Are you trying to turn me on then?”

Q glances surreptitiously between Bond’s legs. “I wouldn’t say that takes much effort, now does it?”

Each razor stroke makes Bond harder. The razor is cool against his cheek. Q’s touch remains professional. If he could just get the man to give an inch…Bond’s not sure what would happen, but he’s fairly certain the results would be fascinating.

“There.” Q sets the razor aside and wipes Bond’s face neatly with the towel. 

Bong sighs. He’s almost getting used to having a near-constant hard on, but it doesn’t make the longing any easier, or the ache any less. 

Q crouches next to his chair. 

“In a way, it’s your own fault.” Q’s voice is gentle, like waves lapping at the beach. “If you hadn’t made that suggestion during our first conversation, I never would have thought of this. Any of this.” His hand rests on Bond’s thigh for a moment before straightening back up.

“Am I expected to believe that?” Bond looks at him. He doesn’t. 

“Why not?”

“You’re so good at it. Prepared, even. Am I truly expected to believe you weren’t dying for something like me to come along for you to play with?”

Q taps his teeth with his tongue. He shouldn’t, he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t. 

He does anyway. 

“I’ve never done this, tested anyone else, like this.” Touched anyone like this. 

Bond looks up at him, pensively. “You know, I do almost believe that.” 

“Believe what you like.” Q moves to stand just in-between his legs. If Bond’s ankles weren’t restrained, the man would already have him trapped. As it is, Q merely stands there, eying Bond as the man shifts uncertainly underneath his gaze.

There’s a dull flush across Bond’s chest as it rises and falls with each labored breath. His eyes are heavy-lidded, and dark as he looks up at Q. 

“What would you do to me, if you could?” 

Bond swallows, tasting the salt on his lips, his tongue. His body is on fire. “I’d fuck you. And then I’d kill you.”

“How?”

“Strangulation.” 

“You tried that before.”

“No,” Bond stops him. “With my cock.” 

Q’s trousers are suddenly tighter than before. He moves carefully around behind Bond, out of his sight. “What if I bit you, during my death throes? That can happen.”

“Really?” Bond remarks. “How many cases of death by-cock-strangulation have you studied?”

Q smiles. “I will miss this.” It’s a slip. Another slip. He should keep his bloody mouth shut. He’s getting sentimental, and it’s throwing him off. 

A careful moment ticks by before Bond wills himself to speak.

“What do you mean?”

“When the tests are complete, the subjects are moved to another facility.” He shouldn’t be telling Bond any of this. What the hell is he doing? Except he wants the man to be prepared for what is to come next. He can't help that.

“And you?” 

Q’s surprised by that. He moves to stand in front of Bond again. “What do you mean?”

“You’re just going to stay here, waiting for the next batch of subjects, and then start the whole process over again?”

“Something like that.” After Bond, it’s a dull prospect. Really, Q should think about his options. 

Bond presses his lips together and stays silent. Q talks at him for a bit, but he doesn’t respond. He’s being childish. He doesn’t care. As long as he’s captive here, it almost didn’t matter. None of it seems real. But the thought of being taken elsewhere is terrifying.

It could mean a chance to escape. It could mean death. 

All Bond knows for certain is that it’s the last he’ll see of Q. The thought is disconcerting.

* * *

The afternoon falls into the same pattern as the days before. Bond answers perfunctorily, sarcastically and unenthusiastically until at last Q turns the machine off with a sigh. 

“None of this is having any lasting effect on you, is it?” Q’s frustrated in spite of himself. He doesn’t like failing. 

“Not particularly.” Bond leans back in his chair, stretching his bound arms as well as he can. “Why don’t you touch me?” They’re going to transfer him anyway. It won’t hurt to antagonize Q a little more before he goes.

“Pardon?”

“You touch me, and I’ll tell you what you want to know.” Would it truly work? Bond doubts it, but he can’t resist giving it a try.

Q just stares at him. “What point would there be in that?”

“You want information. I want your hands.” Bond shrugs. “It’s simple enough.”

“It’s highly irregular.” Q murmurs, reaching for his mug.

“Does that bother you?” Bond smiles.

Q shrugs. He’s never had any set rules about fraternizing with the subjects. It simply hasn’t been an issue until now. Until Bond.

“All right.” Q says.

“What?” Bond’s startled. He stares at Q in disbelief. 

“Tell me about MI6, and I’ll touch you.” Q takes a sip of his tea and sets the mug down.

He never thought Q would agree. “What do you want to know?”

Q smiles. “Everything.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, this one is so long it should really be two chapters, but I didn't want to break it up like that. The whole continuous torturous event happens like that to Bond, and SO IT HAPPENS TO YOU AS WELL.
> 
> Ahem. I think I need coffee.

“We’ll start slow.” Q’s palms rest on Bond’s knees. “What mission were you on when you were captured and brought here?”

“I was in Berne, following an informant.” Bond tells him, barely aware of what he’s saying as Q’s hands stroke along his inner thighs. He can scarcely believe this is happening at long last.

Perhaps he’s dreaming. He’s probably dreaming. That would make more sense.

Q’s fingers skim over his balls.

Maybe he’s not dreaming.

Maybe he’s dead.

Maybe he’s mad.

Q does it again.

Maybe it doesn’t matter.

* * *

Q is systematic, working his way through Bond’s brain, picking apart each section of knowledge as neatly as though he knows exactly what he was looking for to begin with. He wants to know details of Bond’s missions, specifications about MI6’s setup, all information over which Bond’s supposed to die before imparting to another soul.

Q’s hands, however, wander. They wander along Bond’s torso, over scars various and faded, over weary, sensitive skin. Soothing, exploratory fingers seek out the places that make Bond wince and the ones that make his chest tighten.

When he touches Bond’s cock, and then finally slip down to his balls, Bond waits, hardly daring to breathe. He can’t take his eyes off Q even though he wants to look anywhere else in the room but at the man touching him.

“Tell me about M.” Q’s palm cups him lightly, not too tight, not grasping, simply there. Bond wishes he’d move his hand, just a fraction, and then he knows that Q is waiting on him.

“M,” Bond repeats. For a second the world freezes. Why hasn’t she come for him yet? What is she waiting for?

“Yes?” Q squeezes his ball sac gently, his hand warm and enticing.

Bond stifles a groan.

Then he starts speaking, rattling off all the information pertaining to his superior as Q’s hand works him. He tells about M’s career, her office habits and management protocols, every last detail down to the way she takes her tea. Mid-way Q’s hand shifts to glide along his cock before closing over it.

Q strokes Bond slowly, making it last as Bond goes on to tell him about the security procedures.

Bond manages a few details and trails off. “That’s as much as I remember. I’m a field agent, mind you. Not a clerk.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that.” Q says, amused. His hand slides along Bond’s length rhythmically. “If you’d told him me a lot of useful details about the system, I would have had to conclude you were lying.”

Bond’s breath hitches and he swallows dryly.

He so very nearly had.

Q’s fingers slide around his arse, dipping in between his cheeks. Bond spreads his legs automatically before he knows he’s doing it as Q’s forefinger rubs across his hole. His breath grows even shallower. Q is so close, Bond can smell the fresh, basic scent of the man’s deodorant, see the minute flecks of blue and gray in his endless green eyes. Q’s tongue is caught between his teeth momentarily as though he’s concentrating intently.

“This would be less painful with a lubricant.” Q observes.

“I know.” Bond doesn’t care.

Q eyes him and pushes inside, eliciting a groan from Bond as Q’s strokes tighten gradually, dragging it out until Bond is panting. Q’s finger curls inside him and Bond's orgasm is instantaneous. A splatter catches Q’s sleeve. He glances down at it then at Bond, before standing up.

Q washes his hands at the sink in the corner. When he’s done, he dries them and then fills his mug with water from the tap. He takes it to Bond and lets him drink.

The water’s cold. Bond drinks gratefully until there’s none left. Q sets the mug down and returns to crouch in front of him.

His hands rest casually upon Bond’s thighs. “Now tell me about the tech.”

“What?” Bond’s spent and Q is still asking, still touching. Bond struggles to keep up.

“When you were captured, you had a handgun, a communicator, and a knife.” Q’s thumbs press light circles in Bond’s skins, the indents lasting for no more than an instant. “Is that typical for your missions, or necessary for your cover?”

“A bit of both.”

“Hm,” Q continues his ministrations absentmindedly. “You could have been much better equipped. If you had had a radio, for example, you could have,”

“Signaled for help as soon as I was spotted.” Bond finishes softly.

“Well,” Q eyes him. “Yes.”

His thumbs dip into the curve of Bond’s hips almost sensuously. His touch makes Bond’s breath catch even though he just came moments ago. Christ, has it seriously been so long since someone’s touched him like this? Or is it merely Q? The man’s not even trying to be evocative, it’s simply absurdly sexual.

Q’s just stroking leisurely along the hollows of Bond’s hips. Bond’s cock twitches and he wonders what Q is really trying to do here. He spreads his legs a little wider and gazes at Q thoughtfully.

“What would you have sent me out with?”

“Well, a radio for starters.” Q smiles.

Bond chuckles. How old is Q? Late twenties? Early thirties? Bond can’t judge. Q seems ludicrously young and ridiculously ancient all at once.

“What else?” Bond’s voice is soft. He wants Q to keep talking.

“The gun was adequate, but I think a Walther would suit you better.” Q’s hands slide around his back, almost down to cup Bond’s arse, but not quite. They progress back down his thighs to his knees.

“Like guns do you?”

“They’re useful.” Q’s fingers slip behind Bond’s knees. “Like you.”

“Are you calling me a weapon?” Bond’s amused, yet beneath his amusement, he wishes Q had said something else. That he had thought anything else.

“A blunderbuss perhaps, or a broadsword would seem more apt.” Q says. “Yes, broadsword, the force is right.”

“Are you calling me a relic now?”

“I’m simply stating that the dynamism of a sword would suit you.” Q’s fingers proceed to travel back up Bond’s thighs to his crotch.

“I prefer a handgun.” Bond tells him serenely.

“And why’s that?” Q draws Bond’s foreskin back, thumbing the slit for a moment before releasing it.

“So I can tell you to pull my trigger.” Bond can’t resist.

Q looks at him almost severely. “Really, Bond.”

Bond laughs, even as he registers the use of his name. Hearing it sounds so good, hearing it on Q’s tongue is mesmerizing.

“Why don’t you cock it?” He inquires as innocently as he can manage.

Q snorts and sits back on his ankles, gazing up at Bond.

 _If I could have anything_ , Bond thought, _I’d have him_. He’s imagined it a hundred different ways. Now he imagines it slow and measured, Q making quiet needy sounds low in his throat as he arches up underneath Bond. What would it be like to sink into that slender body? To lose himself in Q’s eyes?

Bond blinks and returns to the moment.

Q’s still gazing up at him, a small smile at the corner of his mouth.

* * *

The second time passes through Bond’s body like a quiet storm. He can feel the aftershocks from his toes braced hard against the cold floor, up his legs, through his core, and in his mouth. God, he wants to touch Q so badly. The longing is bitter on his tongue.

He’s never thought of himself as being sensory deprived. But this, it’s been so long. The last time he was touched (Q) it’d been violently; the last time he’d touched anyone (again, Q) was violent was well. Inexplicably, Bond wants to hold him, see how Q fits against his frame.

Mad. He’s going mad. This is how it starts. This is not how you’re supposed to deal with your enemies. But as he told Q ( _How many days ago?_ Bond can’t even remember. _That’s a bad sign._ ), he doesn’t consider Q an enemy. He’s no longer even an obstacle; he’s a challenge, a mystery, a desire, a goal.

“How old are you?” Bond asks.

“Does it matter?” Q’s hand lingers on his thigh. “Age is no guarantee of efficiency.”

“And youth is no guarantee of innovation.” Bond tells him. “But you’re good all the same.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Don’t push it.” Bond’s head aches. Every last part of him aches. He’d like to curl up on a bed, with Q stretched out alongside him. While he’s dreaming, he’d like a roaring fire, a blanket and a brandy please. He takes the picture a step further and puts Q on his knees between Bond’s thighs, mouth wet on Bond’s cock. _Now that is perfect_. The firelight plays across Q’s skin, and he looks up at Bond,

“What are you thinking about?”

“Why?” Bond doesn’t want to give this up. He’s not going to get it; he knows that much.

“You looked content,” Q leans in, looking as though he wants to pull it from Bond’s mind. If he just tries hard enough, he’ll do it.

“Please.” Bond murmurs.

And Q moves away.

* * *

“We’re losing focus.” Q’s thumbs press at the corners of his groin and Bond shudders. Q’s hand rests on his stomach, warm in the chill of his room, before starting to graze along Bond’s hipbone as he moves around him. “How old were you the first time you went down on someone?”

Bond does his best to focus. “Fourteen.”

“How did it feel?” Wisps of fingertips trail over his chest.

“Like the world had opened up for me. Like I understood it better. She tasted so good.” Bond exhales as Q’s forefinger strokes over his nipples, first one then the other.

“Did she come?”

“Yes.” He still remembers that those first moments of uncertainty, _was he doing it right?_ Then tasting her, feeling her quiver under his tongue, the utter satisfaction in knowing he could do that to another human being.

“And when you went down on a boy?” Q’s voice is soft; his fingers run along Bond’s arms and shoulders, the lightest of caresses.

“Sixteen. We met in a pub.”

“And?”

“I thought he looked,” Bond bites back the moan that threatens to escape as Q’s hand clasps the back of his neck intimately. His fingers curl upward through Bond’s hair and Bond leans into it, closing his eyes. Q strokes him like you would a dog, and he likes it.

“Did he reciprocate?”

“What?” Bond opens his eyes, looking up at him. “Oh, yes.”

“How was that?” Q’s palm cups his cheek and Bond swallows.

“He was…good.” Bond had come too quickly, half of it had spilled out of the other boy’s mouth, but he had just laughed and kissed Bond anyway.

He wants Q to kiss him, wants to taste the man, even more than he wants Q to touch his cock again.

There’s a hesitation in the air. Bond can feel it, and then Q pulls away.

“I think that’s enough for today. You’ve given me plenty to work with, 007. Thank you.”

It’s as good as a slap. Bond opens his mouth, but then just shakes his head and laughs. _What does it matter anyway?_

Q glances at him. “Is something amusing?”

“Yes.” Bond chuckles. He's not going to share it though.

Q waits, but Bond merely gazes at him, and finally Q sends for the guards to take Bond back to his cell.

* * *

Q shuts the door of his private room and locks it. He’s barely managed that before he slides clumsily onto to the floor, shoving his trousers down. He wraps his fist around his shaft, stroking himself furiously. The want Bond’s produced in him is considerable. He’s never wanted anything that much, but especially never a person. Q bites his lip, remembering how it felt to touch Bond. Better than he’s imagined, and yet, the continual restraint remained all the while. It had been personal, but there. He’d been the one setting the rules, under a façade of professionalism. It was only a pretense that someone would stop him if he had gone further.

And for that, he hadn’t kissed Bond, hadn’t taken him in his mouth as he’d wanted.

His orgasm rushes over him, hot and desperate. Q sits there on the floor, knees drawn up, breath coming in short, quick stabs.

What the hell is he doing?

He’s not sure he knows any more. That’s dangerous. Bond is dangerous.

Q takes a deep breath, collecting himself.

He cleans off, tidying himself away before settling down to check Bond’s information.

* * *

Bond stretches out on his back, one arm behind his back, one leg drawn up lazily. He rests his other hand on his stomach. For once his body is almost entirely content, and yet there is a portion of him left unsatisfied.

Bond exhales, staring silently at the ceiling. Would it have killed Q to bloody kiss him? He’s fairly certain Q’s attracted to him, even if he does hide it well. Bond’s eyes close wearily.

_I’m going to kiss him if it’s the last thing I do._

It’s perhaps the single most foolish oath Bond's ever sworn to himself, but it sends him to sleep with a smile on his lips.


	11. Chapter 11

Of course, all the information Bond gave Q is false. 

The details don’t fit. They’re good, but they’re quite definitely false.

Q sits back at his desk, folding his arms across his chest. The question is what to do now. He could simply hack into the MI6 mainframe and get the information that way obviously. But that wasn’t the point of the whole exercise. The point had been to get Bond to give it up. And he hadn’t. He’d kept his head remarkably and lied through his teeth while getting Q to do what he wanted. As frustrating as that was, Q can’t help but admire it. He’d been right about Bond. There’s a soft glow of satisfaction in Q that he can’t quite extinguish. Nor does he want to. 

All the same, he can hardly let this pass without at least a slap on the wrist. Carter’s been in twice to check on the progress since yesterday. 

“You’re taking a long time with that one.” Carter observes. “They want results, you know.”

“He’s going to be very useful eventually.” Q tells him. He still has high hopes for Bond in spite of this.

* * *

He lets Bond stew a little while before sending for him.

* * *

Q hasn't dismissed the guards and Bond’s gut tightens instinctively. 

The man remains silent. He drinks his tea as he looks at Bond standing between the guards.

“I’m sure your superiors at MI6 would be very proud of your work yesterday.” 

Bond thinks about that a moment. It’s second nature to him to lie. Had Q really thought he’d tell the truth?

“I am not a cruel person,” Q says quietly, “But I am intelligent enough to know that sometimes cruelty produces the best results.” He nods to the men holding Bond. “Especially when civility fails.”

“Have I made you angry?” Bond deadpans. “I am so very, very sorry.”

“On the contrary. You helped me regain clarity.” Q monitors the screen as the first guard holds Bond by the shoulders. The second guard attaches the pads to Bond’s chest.

Q has them use the electrical charge first, watching dispassionately as Bond jerks and squirms and _screams_. 

Bond's voice is raw when they stop and his upper torso burns. 

Q has him placed on the table, strapping his limbs into place.

Bond stares at the ceiling blankly. This is more like what he expected after all. It shouldn’t feel like betrayal, and it really doesn’t when he thinks about it. He’s known true betrayal, and this isn’t it. It simply aspires to that.

Q stands over him and Bond focuses on his face. “You could have just told me the information.” 

“But that wouldn’t have been any fun now, would it?” Bond tells him. 

“It’s all about fun with you, isn’t it?” Q goes back to his desk. “How long did it take for you to realize you have a proclivity towards lying?

“I don’t remember.” Bond shifts his head slightly to look at him. “Nine or ten.” He wonders if this is to be another trip through his childhood. He really doesn't have the energy for that. 

"That's what I guessed. Did you know,” Q muses, “There’s a torture device called the Pear of Anguish? It was used in various ways, obviously, but to punish liars it was inserted into the mouth.” He types for a few minutes intent on the screen before him.

Bond sweats. He knows what Q is doing. He knows how to take torture, but he’s exhausted. He wants to be _done_.

“Anyway,” Q continues, “it would unfold as the screw on top was turned, mutilating the insides of the mouth, or whatever other orifice contained it.”

Bond chokes with laugher, causing Q to look up. “Was it something I said?”

“I’m sorry,” Bond snickers. “But orifice? Really?” Q just looks at him and Bond sighs. He goes back to staring at the ceiling.

“Regardless,” Q reaches for his mug. “We don’t have one in stock.”

“Pity.” Bond yawns and closes his eyes.

“None of that,” Q hits the button to call for the guards.

“Just let me have five minutes,” Bond murmurs.

Q pauses by the table, looking down at him. “You know I can’t.”

Bond opens one eye. “I see I’m not the only one good at lying.”

* * *

They haul him upright, arms chained and stretched tight over his shoulders, pulling at the muscles. The tips of his toes barely touch the floor. The ache in his shoulders is heavy, straining at him constantly. Bond twists this way and that, testing the give. It’s slight, but there. For now he just allows himself to hang.

His chest burns.

Q makes another cup of tea and leaves Bond hanging there all afternoon as he types busily at his computer. 

It’s almost worse than the previous torture. Bond hangs there, watching Q work, but the man doesn’t look up once. He tries to focus on the room, concentrate on the details, but his vision keeps blurring.

“I’d blindfold you,” Q breaks the silence at last, “but I like you watching me, trying to figure out what comes next.” 

“You’re the sadist.” Bond tells him. “You’re a sadistic little prick.”

“Think about me a lot do you?” Q’s still focused on his computer.

“Yes,” Bond shifts, pulling at his shoulders. “Sometimes.”

Q looks up at him then. "Really?"

“That interests you?”

“Yes, of course. The human mind is infinitely fascinating.” Q reaches for a pen, scribbling something down on the first scrap of paper he finds. “Though I do sometimes prefer technology to humans.”

“You would.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Bond cocks his head at him. “You’re a clever boy. Figure it out.” He looks around the room. “I’m sure this job is very fulfilling.”

“It is actually.” Q tells him testily.

“Then why did you spend the night jacking off to footage of me?” Bond says casually. It’s a shot in the dark, but by the rising flush in Q’s face, he knows it’s a lucky one that's struck somewhere close to home. He smirks.

Q sets his pen aside. “What one person finds fulfilling is completely different than other people’s definitions.”

“So you’d rather masturbate to videos of me then actually touching me,” Bond pauses. “Suit yourself.” 

“Your sense of humor, as always, is impeccable, 007.” Q says dryly, returning to his work.

Abruptly, Bond’s fed up with the whole situation. He swings and sways his body carefully, Q watching him silently all the while.

Bond sways high enough finally, lifting his cuffs up off the hook. He tries to catch himself, but he fails, crashing crashing down and rolling across the floor. Pain shoots through his arm, but Bond pushes himself up, staggering upright. 

Q hesitates. He could try for his phone, or he could run for the door, or he could stay completely still. He opts for the latter.

Bond regains his balance, moving closer. “Why aren’t you sounding the alarm?”

“What are you intending to do?”

“Still researching,” Bond sneers. His arms are killing him.

“Never-ending process.” Q starts to stand then,

But Bond’s already around the desk, grabbing him by the shirt. “How do I get out of here?”

“Is that really what you want?”

Bond growls at him, pulling Q from the chair and throwing him against the wall behind the desk. He needs to get these cuffs off first. “Key, where’s the bloody key?” He leans into Q menacingly. They're so close, he could kiss Q now and the man could do nothing to stop him. Bond stares at Q's lips, momentarily captivated.

“The guard has it.” Q tells him and Bond snaps back into focus. 

He goes over to the desk. Q’s measuring the distance to the door. Bond’s blocking the way. Q stays put.

“Liar. You’d never let it out of your hands.” Bond shuffles quickly through the papers on the desk.

“You’re disturbing everything.” Q says testily.

“Is that really what you’re worried about?” Bond finds the key at last. He has one of the cuffs off when the door opens and the guards enter.

Bond launches himself at them before they can raise their guns. He gets one in the gut, sending him crashing to the ground, before the other one gets the drop on him. The man strikes Bond in the head with the butt of his gun. 

Bond goes down instantly.


	12. Chapter 12

Q sets his desk to rights as soon as Bond’s gone. He straightens each pile of folders automatically. This last time was too close and it was entirely his fault. He should never have allowed that to happen.

He sinks into his chair, resting his head in his hands. He should turn in the report on Bond and be done with him. It would be the wisest thing.

It’s not what he wants.

Q makes a fresh cup of tea and carries it back to his office. For now, he’ll get back to work. Tomorrow he can decide what to do about Bond.

He settles back down to his computer. Ever since they’ve started working on Bond, Q has transferred the daily footage of Bond (the interrogations, as well as Bond's time in his cell) to his laptop. After he’s done that, he deletes the original file. They’re for him; not for anyone else.

Carter comes in as he’s transferring the last file for the day. He eyes Q. “You’re very thorough.”

“I try.” Q says. 

Carter picks up a file and flips through it. “Is this method really worthwhile?”

Q shrugs his shoulders lightly. “It’s an experiment. Like all experiments, we seek to know more about the end result. Regardless of whether it works with this subject, I think sexual means are something we haven’t explored fully in the reprogramming process.”

“I hear this one,” Carter glances at the file, “Bond, has quite the reputation in that field.”

“Yes,” Q glances at the screen. “He does. Seduction is part of any agent’s training, but Bond takes it more seriously than most,” He stops as he can feel Carter just watching him. "Is there something else?”

“He’ll be evaluated eventually, and then transferred.”

Q nods. “I know.” It’s always been a matter of time. He’s not forgotten this. 

“After yesterday’s events, I’m not sure you have much time left.” Carter says. There’s something akin to disappointment in his voice. He at least has faith in Q’s work, but he doesn’t run the facility. “If they’re not convinced you have Bond under control, he’ll be transferred ahead of schedule.”

Q sits back in his seat. “What’s their time frame?”

“They want a full examination and display within the next three days.”

Q nods. “Well, thank you for informing me.”

He returns to his work, not looking up when Carter leaves.

* * *

When he wakes, Bond’s head is splitting. He lies there on the floor of his cell, staring blankly. He’s lost track of these days. He knows it was Tuesday once. 

He should have escaped yesterday. It’s no one’s fault, but his own. In all likelihood he would have been caught as soon as he set foot out of Q’s office, but now he’ll never know.

Bond rubs at his eyes tiredly. Damn Q, damn his fucking distracting lips.

He sits up when the door opens and two guards enter. They each carry a truncheon. The door closes behind them.

Bond smiles.

* * *

It’s not till the next day that Bond’s taken back to Q’s office. Q’s eyes narrow at the fresh bruises on Bond’s skin.

Bond blinks. “I take it these weren’t your orders.” He had wondered. Not that it mattered. 

“You take it correctly.” Q says crisply. He keeps his distance from Bond today, working from behind his desk.

Bond watches him. “What are you truly trying to accomplish here?” When it's all finished, what does Q want?

Q considers Bond’s question for so long, Bond decides the man isn’t going to answer. But then, “I’m trying to ascertain certain triggers, if you will, what sort of prompts, mental and physical, you respond to, and then figure out the best method to use that information to train you to serve the organization’s purposes.” 

“Which organization would that be?” Bond has a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Q shrugs. “This. Or possibly another.” The details are unimportant to him. “Sometimes they auction them off. A reprogrammed agent is a valuable commodity.”

“You what?” Bond stares at him.

"That part isn't really my forte."

“You expect me believe you’ve brainwashed other agents and _sold_ them to other countries?” Bond can’t bring himself to say _auction_. The word conjures up images he’d rather not touch with a ten-foot pole. Sold is bad enough.

“Reprogrammed.” Q murmurs.

“Bullshit.” Bond spits at him.

Q shrugs. “Call it what you will. It’s all the same.”

“And it’s worked?” Bond’s fighting to keep his voice calm. The thought is making him panic. He wants to remain himself. He’d rather die than be turned into some sort of automaton.

“Yes,” Q takes a sip of tea, making a face at the temperature. “It’s not the same as an agent working of their own accord, of course, but we’ll get there.”

Belatedly, he realizes how tense Bond is. “Does that scare you?”

“No.” They’re going to do it regardless. What does it matter if he’s truthful or not? _Pride_ , Bond decides. In the end, pride is all he has, pride and loyalty. Whatever sort of end it is. 

“I do believe you’re lying.” Q observes. “It would make sense if you were. I’d have thought the concept somewhat disconcerting, but perhaps I'm mistaken.” 

“It wouldn’t do any good.” Bond murmurs. “You’re still going to do it.” He’s weary of all this, the game, everything. But he clings to it all the same. If he gives in, they win.

Q crouches in front of him, resting his elbows on Bond’s knees. “Give me a reason not to.”

Bond blinks. _Lie. Beg. Seduce. Something. Anything_. But all he comes out with is, “I wouldn’t be me anymore.” 

Q just gazes at him across his desk. “That’s true. I suppose. But the many components of you would be similar.”

Bond twists in his chair helplessly. “You know that doesn’t matter. It won’t be, I won’t be. If you have any feeling at all,” He breaks off; it won’t work to appeal to Q’s humane side. Nothing works. He tries to think of what he can possibly do, but nothing will work. He’s trapped.

He doesn’t care what they do to him. He’s not going to turn his back on England. He’s not going to work for anyone else. If they try to make him, he’ll kill them all.

“You can’t do it.” He tells Q. 

“We’ll see.” 

“You _can’t_ ,” Bond repeats, and Q gets it. Bond truly thinks he can’t make the agent do what he wants. 

Q smiles this time. “We’ll see.” He doesn’t want to lose Bond any more than Bond wants to lose himself, but neither does he want to fail. If it comes down to choosing between them, well, his career has always been the victor.

Bond opens his mouth, but the door opens, interrupting them. It’s a man Bond’s never seen before, dressed in a lab coat, which throws Bond. Q's dressed the same as always in trousers and a sweater vest. How long has he been here? In this world with Q? Besides him Bond's only seen the few guards. His head aches.

“How’s it going?” The man inquires, looking at Bond.

“Very well.” Q stands. “Something I can help you with?”

“They want that full clinical report and subject assessment.” He glances at Bond again. “Now.”

“You said I had three days.”

“I’m sorry. It’s out of my hands.” The doctor pulls the door open and two guards enter. They unchain Bond and then there’s the prick of a needle. The last thing he sees is Q’s eyes. The funny thing is Bond could have sworn Q looked concerned. He must be going mad.


	13. Chapter 13

When Bond comes to he’s strapped down to a table in the middle of an observation room. There are five men standing off to the side conversing in low tones, while listening to Q. Q rambles on in technical terms and Bond almost drifts off again until he catches the term "sexual experimentation." He tries to focus.

“What good is it?” One of the men sounds bored.

“It’s important to be able to control and use the resources of these agents fully.” Q says. There’s a note of defensiveness in his voice that only Bond catches. “The art of seduction is very useful in the field, so I’m told.”

“What good is this one at seduction?” The first man who spoke looks at Bond. “He couldn’t even get a hard on if you told him to.”

“Oh, I think he could.”

 _What? No._ Bond has a bad feeling that he knows exactly where this is headed.

Q looks at them, adjusting his glasses. “I put it to you. Not only can he get an erection, he’ll be able to maintain it for exactly five minutes, and then ejaculate, when I tell him to.”

Bile rises in Bond's throat. He has to choke it down to avoid being sick all over himself.

“Well, get on with it then.” The men retreat a few paces.

Q nods at the guards. Bond struggles as they move him to one of the familiar chairs but it barely slows them down. They cuff his ankles and left wrist, but leave his right hand unchained. Q steps in behind his chair, glancing down at his watch.

“What are you doing?” Bond glares up at him.

“Oh, come on, this is hardly the time to start being reticent.” Q leans in, checking Bond’s left cuff. “You get hard from me asking about your childhood. If M told you to masturbate in front of the PM, you’d do it for queen and country.”

“You’re not, M.” Bond tells him viciously. “And I owe you no loyalty whatsoever.” He keeps his hand still.

“Bond.” Q uses the name as a last resort.

It has the opposite effect of what he wants. Bond’s eyes narrow and his unchained hand shoots out to grab Q by the wrist, dragging him down between Bond’s legs until Bond can grasp his throat.

The men all immediately pull back out of danger; the guards start to move in.

“If you move closer, I’ll crush his clever little neck.” Bond tells them, his hand tightening on Q’s throat. He can feel Q’s pulse jump, but he stays focused on the men.

“And then what?” One of them says. “You’ll be dead within an instant.”

“So?” Bond presses just right and Q lets out an involuntary desperate, strangled cry.

“Can you really do that one-handed?” Another man asks interestedly.

“Shall we find out?” Bond inquires, looking up at him.

He should have kept his eyes on Q.

Q digs his fingers into Bond’s balls sharply, and Bond jerks, just enough. Q squirms free, scrambling backward out of reach. He lies there on the floor, gasping.

Bond sits back in his seat, waiting for whatever happens next. Q gets to his feet slowly but one of the guards is already behind Bond, holding his head back, gun held at his temple.

Bond swallows, watching Q watch the rise and fall of his throat.

“No,” Q says. “I stand by what I said.”

“Are you serious?” The first speaker demands. "He just tried to kill you."

Q simply nods, his eyes never leaving Bond. “Bring in Nine.”

Bond stiffens as the guard takes the gun away.

* * *

It’s what he’s been afraid of. Nine is a young woman in her mid-twenties. _Russian_ , Bond guesses. _Young, far too young_. Her eyes are wide with fear. She’s dressed in the same gray sweatpants Bond had those first few days, but at least she was given a t-shirt as well.

Q has her sit in a chair opposite Bond. She stares at him fearfully then away, eyes darting around the room, searching for a way out. Absurdly he wants to protect her.

Q glances at Bond. “You know what to do.”

“Please.” Bond asks.

Q just looks at him, and Bond knows that if he doesn’t do this, this woman whom he doesn’t know, will die. Her blood will be on his hands.

Slowly, his fingers wrap around his flaccid cock. He doesn’t dare look at her again. If he does, he’ll lose his nerve. He stays focused on Q who stands there watching him.

Bond’s bitterly relieved when his cock starts to steadily fill his hand. Q is right; this does turn him on. He can still feel the ghost of the man’s fingers on his balls. The lingering pain only makes him harder and Bond hates himself for it.

The clock on the wall ticks on. Bond uses slow, steady strokes, pacing himself very carefully.

What the hell does this man want of him? Even as he asks the question he’s absurdly grateful that this is all that’s required of him. Q could have been so much crueler. Bond knows this, and Q knows he knows this. Bond sees the look in Q's eyes as he works. He focuses with difficulty, dragging his hand stiffly along his cock.

Q remains silent, arms folded, simply observing him. The men are all watching him, and she, Bond dares a glance at the woman, she’s looking from Q to him, trying to understand what’s going.

Bond takes a chance.“Всё будет в порядке.” It’s a lie, obviously. Whatever they’re going to do to her next is probably worse. But he offers the lie anyway, and woman tries to smile at him.

Q’s face tightens.

“What did he say?” One of the men asks, nervously.

“He told her it was all right.” Q tells him, without looking away from Bond. “Four minutes.”

If he doesn’t time this just right, she’ll die. Bond can feel the sweat trickling down his back as he quickens his strokes, then, at the last second, pulls hard and rough at his cock, thinking of – _damn, Q's eyes, England, M, the woman, England, Q, damn him, Q, damn him damn him._

He comes with a sharp, “Fuck,” his mess coating his hand.

Q looks at the group of men with a satisfied expression. “There.”

“Impressive. But still, what’s the objective?”

Q sighs heavily. “I’ve already explained, but,” he draws off to talk to them, and Bond takes deep, steadying breaths.

The woman looks at him and murmurs, “Cпасибо,” in a hoarse voice.

Bond nods, and then she’s taken away. He waits to be led back to his cell. In the meantime he takes petty pleasure in wiping his spunk along the arm of the chair.

One of the men walks over to examine Bond more closely, followed by Q. “I see what you mean about him being useful.” He asks a few technical questions that Bond pays no attention to, instead fantasizing about twisting the man’s neck until it snaps.

Q answers the man in short, clipped sentences, finally sending the man scurrying back to the group.

He looks down at Bond. “You did well."

“What was the point of that if I may ask?” Bond doesn't bother asking why Q did it in the first place. In the end Bond forced his hand and Bond knows it.

“They wanted to see where you were in the process.”

“And?”

“You’re being transferred next week.” Q says. For once he allows his frustration to show. His display backfired and now they’re taking Bond away sooner than he had thought. This isn't precisely how he imagined the demonstration going.

“Where?” Bond demands.

“I don’t know.” Q admits.

“Bullshit.” If Bond breaks his wrist, he could be out of the handcuffs in a second. He’d have to break both of them though, and what good would he possibly be with two broken wrists? “What will you do?” He doesn’t really expect Q to tell him; he just wants to ask. He needs time to think, time to plan. There's no time.

“I’ve been thinking about that.” Q says. “I must say the climate’s getting a bit chilly for my tastes.”

Bond snorts. “Do you think?”

Q merely shakes his head, hiding his smile.

There's no time, but Bond still gazes at that smile, wishing he had some semblance of a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Всё будет в порядке = everything's gonna be alright,.  
> Cпасибо = Thanks


	14. Chapter 14

He has however long before they take him back to his cell, and that’s that. Bond’s mind is racing. Q’s preoccupied with his laptop. Two guards as always. Bond checks the doors. The first guard is holding the door open for the men as they file out of the room into the hall. The second guard leans down to cuff Bond’s left wrist.

Bond sinks his fingers into the man’s throat hard, crushing it without hesitation. The man slumps toward him and Bond’s hand scrabbles over him, rapidly searching for the key.

The other guard glances over at him, “Hey!” 

Q looks up, startled.

Bond finds the key, unlocking his right wrist. He jerks his head out of the way as the guard fires a shot at him. The bullet grazes his shoulder. Bond has his left ankle unlocked before the man gets another shot off and lunges at him, still attached to the chair. The guard hits the floor and they roll, the chair wrenching at Bond’s ankle. Bond punches him swiftly in the throat, and grabs his gun. 

When he raises it, Q’s halfway across the room. 

Bond’s hand wavers for a second, and then he shoots. 

Q hits the ground with a cry, clutching his leg. 

Bond gets his ankle free at last, hand slippery with blood. He checks the guard’s pulse and looks at Q who’s pulled himself into a sitting position, hand clenched around his leg.

Bond looks him straight in the eyes and snaps the guard’s neck. 

He makes his way over to the door, locking it. They’ll have heard the gunshot. Soon they’ll be coming for him. Bond goes back to the guard and loosens the man’s tie, pulling it free. He walks over to Q on unsteady feet. 

“Here.” Bond ties the tie around the wound in Q’s thigh. It’s bleeding but, “You’ll live.” He tells Q who just looks at him. “Now how do I get out of here?”

“You won’t make it.” Q tells him breathlessly.

“Say I do.” Bond’s hands rest on his leg. “Say I make it, and I won’t kill you.”

“Do I have your word on that?” Q asks. He looks a little pale which Bond puts down to the blood loss. 

Bond hesitates. It’s in Q’s best interest to help him. In this moment Bond’s main aim is to escape. To achieve that he’ll put aside his personal feelings towards Q. For now at least.

“Yes.” He sits back and offers Q his hand. Q takes it and for a second his palm is warm against Bond’s. Then Bond pulls him to his feet.

Q winces as Bond pulls him towards his chair, nudging him to sit. “I need a way out, and I need,” He leans over Q, reaching into his trouser pocket, noticing how the other man’s stiffens against his touch. 

Bond smirks, pulling out Q’s phone. “Bring up a map of the facility. I want to see all the exits, as well as where all the agents are being kept.” He waits until Q’s fingers start moving over the keyboard before he makes his call. There are voices in the hall outside the room. They’ll try to break in soon.

“Who the bloody hell is this?”

“M,” Bond can’t believe how ordinary his voice sounds.

“007, where the hell are you?” 

Bond smiles. He’s not imagining the relief in her voice. 

“The Alps, I believe.” He looks at Q, who mouths his exact coordinates. Bond repeats them, then leans over Q again to read off the charts he’s brought up. “There are several other agents here who need to be extracted as well as a total of twenty-six guards to be dealt with. Well, twenty-four now. Also some miscellaneous staff.”

“You’ve been gone for almost a month, 007. I,” M stops herself abruptly. 

It hasn’t even been a month. Bond’s legs feel weak. 

“We have a team in Zurich. They’ll be there in the hour. Where are you currently?”

“Holed up in a room with one of the facility’s employees.” It’s hardly the term he would use to accurately describe Q, but there will be time enough for that later. “No clean exits.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something to do with her while you wait,” M says dryly.

Bond opens his mouth, but M continues. “Stay put, Bond. Don’t put yourself in unnecessary danger.” 

The orders are a sign of how worried she’s been. “Marm.” It’s a return to form, a relief. Bond hangs up, holding Q’s phone tight in his fist. Now there’s nothing left but the waiting. 

_Stay put._

Bond eyes Q who glances up at him. “Now what?”

“Now,” Bond goes over to the chair and unfastens the handcuffs. He brings them back over where Q’s seated. “You’re going to stay put.” He pulls Q’s arms behind his back, cuffing him to the chair.

“And you?” Q looks up at him.

“I’m a little tired of staying put.” Bond tells him. He studies the guards, going for the taller one. He pulls the man’s trousers off, pulling them on over his hips. He strips off the jacket, going for the shirt. It feels strange to have clothes on once more. He’s still barefoot. The man’s shoes are too small for him.

The voices in the corridor are growing louder. 

Bond checks the clip in the gun automatically, sticking it in his waistband. He takes the gun from the other guard’s belt as well. He’s running on autopilot now. This is what he’s used to doing. Adrenaline courses through his veins. _This_ is what he does.

He can feel Q’s eyes on him, watching him silently.

“I know. It’s not my best look, is it?” Bond gestures to the appropriated clothing. “Needs must.” He looks around the room. “Is there another way out of here?”

“I thought she told you to stay put.” 

“You should know by now, I don’t always obey orders.” Bond goes to the laptop and draws up a schematic of the room. There’s a vent through the ceiling that runs along the hall parallel to Q’s office. From there he could easily reach the first of the cells.

He’s itching to keep moving, after being dormant and restrained for so long. If he stands still, all Bond does is remember. He glances at Q, and then away quickly.

The shirt’s collar chafes at his neck, and he straightens it absently. The bullet graze on his shoulder is already bleeding through the shirt.

“Why’re you doing this?” Q asks, “Is it the need to be the hero?”

“I’m hardly that.” Bond looks around the ceiling, selecting the vent he needs. He pulls a chair over and steps up on it.

“You’d prefer to be anything but the victim.” Q says softly. It’s only natural, he knows. 

Bond pauses, looking down at him. “Call me what you like,” His voice is hard, but polite, that of a complete professional. “I was a prisoner here. And that’s all.” He knocks the grating over the vent aside and pulls himself up. 

The last Q sees of him is his bare feet disappearing up into the vent.

* * * 

It’s over quickly. Bond’s got the first three agents out, and killed two guards when the team from MI6 moves in. He leans back against the hallway wall, breathing in deep.

“Sir, are you all right?” One of the men asks him.

“Fine. I’m fine.” Bond says.

“But your foot,”

Bond looks down. The blood from his ankle is seeping down his foot, leaving a trail behind him. He hadn’t noticed. “It’s fine. There’s something I have to do.”

He makes his way back to the observation room, but it’s empty. 

Q’s gone, collected with the other prisoners. Bond looks around the room one final time, and then at last selects two things, the handcuffs dangling from the chair, and Q’s laptop. Then he leaves.


	15. Chapter 15

Being back in London is surreal. They debrief him after he’s had the routine medical exam. During the debriefing it occurs to Bond that any records on his days in the facility there were probably kept by Q. No one at MI6 has any idea of what happened to him. The few lines in his file do not do his time there justice. They simply state that he was captured, held prisoner for three and a half weeks, interrogated, and then escaped.

M reads that summary aloud, and then looks up at him. “Anything else you want to tell me?”

Bond thinks of each and every tortured moment, sweating and coming at Q’s directive, the hours spent waiting in his cell, hoping for rescue in breath, and surrendering to the inevitable in the next. “Not particularly.”

“The other agents are being treated, questioned, and then sent home. It will give us some goodwill with Russia and Turkey at least.”

“What of the employees?” Bond manages to sound casual. Where are they keeping Q? The cellblock? One of the prisons? Where?

“We’re questioning them as well. One or two of them seem rather useful.” M looks at Bond carefully. “Are you sure you have nothing more to say, 007?”

“Absolutely, marm.” He salutes her, and goes out.

* * *

It feels strange to be dressed in his own clothes again. Clothes make it easier to hide, easier to pretend. There are no visible scars from his time with Q. Even the cigarette burn has faded, joining the ranks of Bond’s many scars. This time, the wounds are all invisible, clinging to his skin like a shadow he can’t shake.

* * *

Bond goes home; to the flat he hasn't seen in months. Even before he got captured he wasn’t the best at going back. He lies on his bed on wrinkled sheets, and closes his eyes.

_“We’ll start slow.”_

Well, that’s no good. Bond sits up.

Sleep won’t come so he drinks, letting the alcohol carry him away. He wants. What? What does he want? To finish what he started that time his hands first closed around Q’s throat? He wonders where they’ll put Q and how long it would take to break in.

Bond smokes, cigarette after cigarette, refilling his scotch repeatedly.

When sleep takes him at last, it’s fitful, but at least the dreams are blessedly vague.

* * *

It takes Bond three days of hanging around the office, but finally Tanner happens to mention they’re keeping the employees in Block C.

After that it’s easy.

* * *

Q can feel someone watching him. After being incarcerated it’s not an entirely new sensation, but this time is different.

When the door opens and he looks up, Bond’s standing there, hands in his pockets, gazing at him.

“This is a nice surprise.”

“Is it really?” Bond asks, stepping inside the cell. The door closes behind him.

Q shrugs. “As cells go, this one is fairly routine and therefore fairly dull.”

“I’m so sorry you’ve not been kept better entertained.” Bond’s tone verges on dangerous.

Q ignores that. "May I ask what I'm doing here?" He keeps the _alive_ part to himself.

"M thinks you might be useful." Bond tells him. His hands are still in his pockets. He hasn't taken his eyes off Q since he entered the cell. "Anyone who can inflict the amount of damage you're capable of is too valuable to simply imprison or kill."

"I see." Q reflects in this. "Out of curiosity, is that M’s impression, or yours?”

“What’s it matter?”

Q’s smile is faint, barely on his lips for an instant. “If it’s yours, I’d have to agree with you. If it’s M’s, it means you told her.” He scrutinizes Bond. “I’d say, at a guess, it’s the former.”

Bond’s sweating slightly. He takes his hands from his pockets at last.

“So what are you doing here then? Surely they don't think putting you in a room with me is wise in any event." Even if Bond’s superiors are unaware of Q’s methods of interrogation they can’t possibly consider this is a good idea.

"Oh, I'm not supposed to be here," Bond says carelessly. "They think it's psychologically damaging for me to be around you. And that’s with only the little they know.” Lord knows what they’d think if they knew everything Q had done to him.

Q eyes him. "So why are you here?"

Bond has him pinned against the wall in an instant. "Maybe I'd like to kill you." His fingers stroke over Q’s throat like a lover’s caress. He presses against Q’s adam’s apple until he swallows heavily.

"Your erection says otherwise," Q says breathlessly. He can feel Bond, thick and heavy against his thigh.

Bond doesn't pull away though. Instead he smiles, and then he kisses Q.

If kiss is really the word for the attack Bond launches on Q's mouth. He tears at Q’s lips with his teeth; there's blood mingling with tongue. Q can't breathe and he's harder than he's ever been in his life. Bond's fingers dig into his shirt, pulling at skin, pulling at him, and then-

Then the door bursts open and Bond is hauled off him.

Q stands still, drawing in gulps of air as Bond is escorted out of the cell. There’s blood in his mouth and he stares blankly at the closing door.

* * *

"What the hell did you think you were doing?" M stares at Bond incredulously.

“Merely interrogating him.” Bond can still taste Q on his tongue. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Bullshit.” M says sharply. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, Marm.” Bond shifts awkwardly. His lips feel swollen, his teeth predatory. He knows what he must look like to her, but he doesn’t give a shit.

"You have strict orders to stay away from the prisoner, 007. If I find out you've disobeyed those orders,"

"I'm sorry, marm. It won't happen again."

"Oh I'll make damn sure of that." M tells him. "You're leaving tomorrow for one of our treatment centers."

Bond rests his knuckles on her desk. "Please don't, I need." He takes a deep breath. "I need to be out in the field, marm. I've had my fill of rooms."

M looks at him with what might be pity but shakes her head. "I'm sorry, but at the moment you're simply too much of a liability. Cooperate, get back on your feet and prove you're still capable of performing your job with the professionalism it requires. Understood?"

"Understood." Bond goes without a backward glance.

* * *

After Q the sessions at the center are laughably easy. It’s simple enough to let them know that the isolation and torture affected him obviously. That’s easy. No one ever suspects anything else and Bond keeps the memories bolted up tight.


	16. Chapter 16

Bond survives the treatment center, and is cleared for field work. M gives him an assignment and he flies to Japan, tracking a briefcase with potentially dangerous files. It's an easy job, but he'll take it.

Two weeks turn into a month, then two, three. Bond knows M gave him this job on purpose. For once he takes advantage of it. The days drift by easily for once. Bond swims and works out, making sure his body returns to the weapon it once was, the weapon he can rely on. Yet at night he drinks until he makes sure he doesn't dream.

While he’s there, Bond seduces a photographer, a curvaceous brunette with long legs and wide eyes. She’s a lovely woman, pleasant enough, but there are no regrets when Bond has to return to London.

* * *

Bond flies in to Heathrow a day early. He plans on surprising M first, but she's in a meeting with the PM. No matter. Bond heads down to Q branch to turn over his equipment before he forgets as so often happens. Along the way he stops to flirt with one of the new secretaries, admiring the way she walks away from him before turning his attention back to the office.

Bond stops dead when he sees the man sitting behind one of the computers. "What the devil are you doing here?"

Q looks up at him, startled. "I could ask the same question of you." His shoulders hunch slightly, as Bond stares at him.

"I work here," Bond’s chest feels tight. He can’t believe his eyes. What the hell is Q doing here, sitting there as if he fucking belongs?

Q pushes his chair back and stands. "As it happens, so do I."

For a moment they just gaze at each other, then Tanner is at the door.

"She'll see you now, Bond.” He looks between them worriedly. “Immediately.”

Bond's hands clench and then he manages to relax. He turns and walks out of the office.

Q sinks back down into his seat. He'd known this would happen, but he hadn’t been expecting it today. He goes and gets a cup of tea in the canteen, drinking it a corner table alone.

If he closes his eyes, the last time he saw Bond rushes back to him. He can still feel Bond pressing him up against the wall, his mouth attacking Q’s. Q takes a deep breath, clasping his cup. He should have been more prepared for this day.

* * *

Bond paces back and forth in M’s office. "You made him part of Q branch?" Of all the idiotic decisions. He can scarcely believe it of M. "Was it the name? Did you need an alphabetical human equivalent?"

“He’s given us invaluable information on security measures for organizations in both Russia and North Korea. I’m not letting this one go, Bond.”

Bond just looks at her.

“He has a brilliant mind," M makes a note in the open folder she had before her. “It would be a waste not to utilize it to its full potential.”

"I know perfectly well what kind of mind he has." Bond stares out the window. He still can’t believe this.

M looks at him sharply. "If you have any objections or concerns, by all means 007, voice them now."

If Bond tells her what happened, what happens when he looks at Q, they'll lock him up and throw away the key. “It’s not that.”

M leans back in her chair, studying him. “We debriefed him thoroughly, ran his records, and assessed the situation. I see no reason why he wouldn’t be an instrumental part of our team. Now,” she looks at Bond carefully. “The question is, can you work with him?”

“Do I have to?” Bond mutters.

“Not necessarily. I could always reassign him to a different section.”

Bond chews his lower lip. “But he will be remain with MI6.”

“Yes. Any reason why he shouldn’t?”

Bond doesn’t answer.

M sighs. “I put him there partly as a test, to see what sort of reaction it would bring about. Now, are you going to tell me what happened between the two of you?”

A chuckle forces its way through Bond’s lips. “What happened?”

“Bond, tell me.”

“He questioned me. He was very good at it.”

“What did you give him?” M probes at the guilt she sees lingering there.

“Nothing about the agency. Just myself.” It’s better obviously that he didn't betray MI6, but Bond gets no pleasure from remembering what he did tell Q. In so many ways, Q knows him better than anyone now; Bond’s skin crawls at the thought. He ignores the warmth curling low in his groin. Q knows things about him that no one knows.

"Personal feelings aside, what's your professional assessment?" M inquires. Is he safe?"

“Safe?” Bond considers. “Yes, I think he’ll be a good asset.”

"Do you have any reason to believe he'd betray us?"

"Strangely no." Bond shakes his head. "As long as he has a project to work on, I think he'll be content." It’s a vague rationalization, but he believes it to be true. Whether Q has any loyalty to England or not, Bond has no idea. But it’s not countries that Q’s tied to, it’s ideas and ideas have no nationality.

M’s still watching him.

"I'm sorry,” Bond says abruptly, “It was just unexpected."

"Well you weren't supposed to arrive until tomorrow." M says reprovingly.

“I know.” Bond goes back to staring out the window. “What do we know about him?”

“He’s young, intelligent. He says the facility put out an advertisement and it caught his eye. The next thing he knew he was being flown off to the Alps location. He worked there eleven months before you,” M paused, “arrived.”

“What about his name?” Bond asks as casually as he can manage.

“I hardly think that’s of importance to you.” M ignores the hint. “Q will suffice for now.”

Bond nods absently.

“What about you, 007?”

“Marm?”

“Are you ready to go back to work?” M waits.

“I’ll try, marm.” He wants to drown himself in a bottle of tequila far far away from here.

“Do that.” M slips her glasses on. “You’ll get a new assignment in a few days. Dismissed.”

* * *

Bond knows he should leave immediately, but he heads back down to Q branch anyway. The tension at the back of his neck that's been there ever since he saw Q is not going away.

Q looks up as Bond enters, hands freezing on the keyboard. He looks younger here, or perhaps it’s because Bond is standing over him. So much of the time, he spent gazing up at Q. It’s odd to see him simply sitting there.

“You look well.” Q says at last.

"You're out of my system," Bond tells him dryly.

Q tilts his head to one side. "I thought they trained you to be better liars."

Bond purses his lips. It’s true. They did. But Q’s managed to wriggle his way under Bond’s skin.

He turns and walks out of the office without another look.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a terrible person. Here, have a chapter in which Q drinks a lot of tea.

Q sits at his desk long after Bond’s disappeared through the door. Eventually he collects his coat and his scarf and goes home. 

It’s good to be back in London. Q had underestimated how much he missed it. Now, the familiar streets and buildings, the smells and sounds come rushing back to him. He smiles in the rain, because it’s the rain of home. 

Eventually that will wear off and he’ll simply be damp, but in the meantime, he enjoys the feeling.

* * *

The house is dark and cold because once again he forgot to leave any lights on, and it takes forever to completely heat even one room so normally he simply stays in the kitchen. There at least the heat from the stove keeps the room bearable until it's long past the hour for sleep and he goes upstairs to crawl between icy sheets. 

The kettle boils and Q pours his tea before sitting down at the table amidst his papers.

Over the last few months he’s come to enjoy working within MI6. It’s still very much a trial period, he knows that; but he also knows that M could easily be persuaded to keep him on. The job suits him. He doesn’t want to give it up.

Seeing Bond again had unsettled him more than Q cares to admit. He sips his tea and considers the matter.

He remembers that last day in the cell when Bond had come to see him. How it had felt. Bond’s hands on his body, his cock hard against Q’s thigh. The look in Bond’s eyes right before he finally kissed Q.

Of course it hadn’t been entirely truthful on Q’s part. Bond’s erection could have just as well meant that he had wanted to kill Q. As his earlier tests had shown violence, death, and arousal were intimate companions in the man’s psyche. It had been a choice to turn the moment from violence to sex, and as a result, Bond had gone for a combination of the two.

As the days passed, Q had wondered many times what would have happened next if the guards hadn’t pulled Bond away.

Q drinks his tea slowly. He remembers when M first wanted to speak to him.

* * *

It was two weeks after he’d last seen Bond. They had taken him from his cell and delivered him to her office.

_Q sat in front of her, hands folded in his lap, waiting. In his experience, when they (be they government, militia, or partisans) bother keeping you alive, they usually want something. He’s curious in this case as to what that is._

_M eyed him over her desk. “I want to know what transpired in your sessions with 007.”_

_“He didn’t tell you?” He wasn’t really surprised. What did Bond have to gain by telling? Still, if there was anyone he might have told, it would have been M._

_Q gazed at her with interest. So this was M._

_M pursed her lips. “As I’m sure you know by now, he can be very…reticent when the mood strikes him.”_

_“That’s one term for it,” Q agreed._

_To his surprise, M smiled. “You like him.”_

_Q considered the question. “He’s an interesting subject.”_

_“Indeed.” M opened her file. “We’re trying to decide what to do with you. We can always decide you’re a danger to the government and put you in solitary confinement in one of our prisons. That might be the wisest option. Then again in exchange for cooperation and information, I might be able to offer you a proposition.”_

_Q thought about it. “In exchange for what information exactly?”_

_M’s smile widened slightly._

* * *

Another thing that keeps worrying at him is the fact that his laptop has vanished. At first Q thought it had merely been collected by MI6’s recovery team. But it’s not in any of the logs, no mention of it in the reports. If it had been collected, and somehow they had managed to get into it (which Q finds highly unlikely, but one never knows), his conversation with M might have gone very differently.

If the team didn’t take it, there was only other person who would have had any reason to do so.

Bond.

Q sits back in his chair. Bond who had looked so bloody startled when he walked into that office and found Q there. M clearly hadn’t warned the agent that Q was now employed at MI6. Why? It would have been the considerate thing to do, especially after Bond’s past experience. Then again, Q supposes that M could have easily wanted to see what kind of effect his presence would have on Bond in a familiar, routine setting. This at least is something he understands.

He sighs, and gets up to make another cup of tea.


	18. Chapter 18

Bond’s drinking her whiskey again. 

M sighs, and sets her case down. “I’ve told you about this before.”

“Sorry.” Bond slings back the last of his drink and sets it down. He looks exhausted. The lines around his eyes are heavy. Just once M wishes she could simply come home to an empty flat.

“What do you want?” 

Bond considers his empty glass. “I don’t want to go back to the treatment center,” He leans over to the sideboard, having the audacity to pour himself another drink.

“Is there any reason you think you’d be made to?”

“There is if I tell you anything more.” Bond takes a sip. “Needs more ice. I didn’t like to take it all, so I left some for you.”

“Bond,” Her tone is a warning.

Bond ignores it. 

M pours herself a drink. She needs it. Dropping the melting ice into her glass, she takes a sip and frowns. He’s right, of course. It does need more ice. 

“Bond, this is the last chance you have to tell me,”

“What they were doing was reprogramming agents.”

“Brainwashing.” M says flatly. She’d been afraid of that, but when Bond looks at her his eyes are clear and steady. Well, steady enough.

“Essentially.”

“But they didn’t make it that far with you.”

“Not quite, no.” Bond smiles faintly.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

Bond just shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

There’s something else and M waits, but he stays silent for so long that at last she prods, “What is it?”

“I may be harboring some violent tendencies towards him.” Bond says at last. That’s one way to put it, he supposes.

“Him?” M asks, even though they both know exactly whom he’s talking about.

“Him. Q.” 

“And?”

“Some sexual ones as well.” Christ, the man really did rub off on him. _I may dream about fucking him until he's a wreck, but the side effects are really nothing to worry about._

M takes another sip. “Well? What do you intend to do about it?”

“I don’t know.” 

“Are you asking me for permission for something?”

“I’m not asking for anything.” Bond says slowly. “I intend to keep my distance.” That’s what he intends, but it’s by no means what he’s going to do.

“I should have you sent back to recovery.” M murmurs.

“Wouldn’t help.” Bond’s words are very quiet. He doesn’t know why he’s said any of this, why he’s admitted it to M. 

M studies him as he stands there, leaning against her window, staring out at the rain.

“Here’s the thing, 007. I want you to continue working for us, as I also want Q’s services.” She looks at him levelly. “Make sure he’s in one piece when you’re finished.”

“Understood.” Bond drains his glass and leaves. 

* * *

Q pauses just inside his door, shaking the rain off his collar. There’s someone in his house. Something about the dark room is full of menace and promise. He keeps his hand on the door a moment, hesitating. Should he make a run for it or, 

“Close the door.”

The warning levels in his brain accelerate when he knows for certain that it’s Bond.

“Do make yourself at home.” Q closes the door.

“Already have, thanks.” Bond’s leaning against the doorway between Q and the kitchen. At first they just stay there, eyeing each other.

“I take it this is a personal call?” Q takes off his overcoat, hanging it up. He can feel Bond watching him as he does. 

“You take it correctly.” Bond fishes his cigarettes out of his pocket. He sticks one in the corner of his mouth, lighting it. 

Q runs a hand through his damp hair. “Topic of conversation?” He’s not entirely sure he’s up to this tonight. It’s been a long day and he was looking forward to a quiet evening by himself.

Bond just looks at him as he sucks on his cigarette, cheeks hollowing as he inhales. “I didn’t much like being held prisoner and perversely tortured.”

“Really? I would have thought that’s right up your alley.”

Bond shifts his stance, and for the first time it occurs to Q that he really should be afraid.

“If telling me this was so important, I’d have thought you’d have showed up sooner than this.”

Bond shrugs, getting ash on the carpet. “I was busy. Learning things.” His tone is loose, casual, and Q realizes suddenly that Bond is drunk.

“What did you learn?”

“You have to rescue yourself. No one else is going to do it for you.”

“Harsh, but probably true.” Q concedes. He refrains from pointing out that M _did_ send a team in when Bond called her. It's not something Bond needs to hear right now.

“And,” Bond pauses, licking his lips. He scratches his head and chuckles. 

“And?” Q waits.

“And I can’t get you out of my head.” Bond says bluntly. Maybe if he had told someone it would have helped with that, but then there’d be official records and most likely Q wouldn’t be standing here, with him. 

Bond may be drunk, but it’s just enough to make him dangerous, not enough to fell him. He watches Q watch him, feeling the warmth spread in his gut.

“Are you worried I’m going to kill you?”

“Not particularly.”

“And why’s that?” Bond lets the smoke from his cigarette drift between them.

“Then you’d have to explain it, and if you do that, everyone will know what happened. And you don’t want that.”

“Maybe I don’t care.”

“I think you do.”

“Well, you’re wrong.” He moves in, pushing Q flat against the wall.

“Bond,” Q pushes at him but Bond grips his throat and he subsides, wondering if this is it.

Bond stares at him and abruptly pushes Q around to face the wall. 

“Bond,” Q croaks. 

“Oh, that’s right, now you use my name.” Bond fumbles one-handed with Q’s trousers until he gets them down. When that’s accomplished, he nudges Q’s legs apart as far as the trousers will allow and undoes his own. Bond spits into his palm, the sound obscenely loud in the silent room. Silent save for Q’s labored breathing. Bond can feel his heart beating more rapidly in his chest. He slides his spit-slicked hand along his cock, before pushing it between Q’s thighs.

“Close your legs.” 

“Bond.” He should say something else, but for once Q can’t think of a single thing.

“Close your damn legs or I’ll fuck your arse instead.”

Q obeys silently. The warmth of his skin, trembling against Bond’s cock, sends a jolt of lust through Bond. He braces himself one-handed against the wall and starts thrusting. It’d be better buried inside Q, but this isn’t bad. Q’s thighs are warm, holding his cock as he moves. Bond’s other hand rests on Q’s shoulder, clenching it hard as he keeps his thrusts steady. Q’s got one hand trapped between him and the wall, the other is knuckles hard against the wall as Bond’s breath tightens. His fingers dig sharply into Q’s shoulder, and then Bond sighs quietly as he comes.

Q leans his forehead against the wallpaper, thighs sticky. He opens his mouth to say something, but Bond’s already extricated himself. Q looks over his shoulder just in time to see the front door swinging open. 

Bond is gone and Q’s left alone and sore and needy. 

He goes upstairs to run a hot bath. First though, he takes a washcloth and cleans himself off. His body smells like Bond. He sinks down into the bath with a sigh, closing his eyes. 

Q knows one thing. He wants to keep his job at MI6, in spite of Bond, or possibly half because of him. he can’t help wondering what exactly Bond is going to do about that. 

* * *

Bond goes home and stands in the middle of his flat. His heart rate won’t slow down; it roars and thuds in his chest. He takes deep gulps of air, trying to breathe normally, but it doesn’t help.


	19. Chapter 19

Bond wakes up the next morning to a dull taste of disappointment in his mouth. He rolls over and stares up at the ceiling. In a minute he’ll get up, shower and dress. But for now he lingers there in bed, remembering the all too brief feeling of having Q pressed up against the wall. 

M sends him off to Nepal for two weeks and by the time he’s back, Bond expects he’ll have finally figured out how to ignore the gnawing feeling in his gut whenever he thinks of Q. 

* * *

Unfortunately, he seems to be mistaken.

* * *

Q goes about his daily work. It’s mundane some days, but fascinating for the most part, and really, he’d be more than fine if his house never got broken into again. But he still needs his laptop back.

So the next time 007 loiters casually in the vicinity of his desk, he can’t resist. 

“My laptop doesn't seem to be in the equipment collected by MI6.” Q looks over at Bond. “I don’t suppose you'd know anything about that.”

Bond shrugs. “It probably got confiscated and someone forgot to log it. It does happen.” He goes along down the hall to M’s office, ignoring Q’s questioning look.

* * *

Bond’s tried to get into Q’s laptop countless times, even though he knows it’s futile. He’ll never learn the password. But he still can’t help trying. 

* * *

However, when he comes out of M’s office, Q is waiting for him in the hall, arms folded across his chest, glasses pushed up on the bridge of his nose.

“You have my laptop.” Q accuses him.

“I never denied it.” Bond straightens his tie out of habit. They’re just standing in the hall for christsake. His tie is still too tight so he straightens it again.

“What do you want, apart from my head on a platter?” Q’s banter is routine. His mind is barely there. He’s ready to get back to his desk and his real work. He half expects Bond to be lying about the matter. Perhaps the laptop was destroyed after all.

Bond smiles. “I’d settled for your mouth on my cock.” He leans forward, invading Q’s space. “You give me your best blowjob, and I’ll give you back your precious laptop.”

“That’s all?” Q is skeptical. Surely after all they've been through, Bond can come up with a better threat. 

“Yes.” Bond says. “For now.” He’s already decided what else he wants. “As well as the password.”

“What?” Q stares at him. 

“I want the password.” Bond keeps his gaze level. He wants this and he’s going to have it. 

“No.”

“Relax, I won’t delete anything. I just want to see what you’re keeping on there.” Bond’s fairly certain of what he’ll find. Some of it at least.

Q takes a deep breath, shoves his hands in his pockets and nods shortly. “All right.” He needs that laptop back, even if it means that. “I’ll tell you the password at four o’clock this afternoon. You will have it for one hour precisely, and then at five, I want you on my doorstep with it.”

“Very well.” Bond holds out his hand, force of habit. 

Q hesitates and then takes it. They’re meant to shake, he knows, but it’s all he can do to keep his palm there in Bond’s for a second, skin to skin, before pulling away. 

* * *

Bond's phone beeps at exactly 16:00. Bond is waiting in his flat, ready with a whiskey poured and waiting beside him.

He takes a sip and types in the string of numbers Q texted him.

If he were Q, where would he put it, but it’s not even hidden. There’s a folder in plain sight simply labeled 007.

That’s all.

He’s merely the number, not the name after all. 

Bond copies the file to a flash drive. He only promised he wouldn't delete anything; he never said he wouldn't take it.

There are transcripts of all their conversations, along with notes on Q’s neatly compiled about each interview. After that there are the videos, all that endless footage. Bond goes through them methodically, checking each file before closing it again. The only one he watches in its entirety is the one where he choked Q. After Bond's led away, Q just stands there, fingers at his throat, lost in thought.

Bond hits pause, leaving Q frozen there. He turns back to the notes.

_Intelligent if single-minded subject. Capable of infinite possibilities with the right motivation and instruction. Rehabilitation – recommended for longer processing._

It’s all couched in terms like that. Bond reads through a few, snorting occasionally at Q’s comments, before methodically going through the rest of the laptop. 

He can see why Q wants it back. There are rows and rows of encrypted files and folders. What little Bond can access is enough to tell him that Q’s amassed a stronghold of information here. In the wrong hands this could prove very dangerous indeed. 

Bond finishes his drink, removes his flash drive and sets it aside. 

* * *

He takes a quick shower.

At least it would have been quick, except in the middle, he has a momentary flash of cold water coursing down his back, the chain tightening around his ankle and he shudders violently, the force of the memory rushing over him. Bond turns the water on full hot and braces himself against the wall until it burns.

* * *

Q answers the door promptly at 17:07. "You’re late. Do you have it?”

“I wouldn't be here if I didn't.” Bond brushes past him to go inside.

“So sure of that are you?” Q closes the door slowly. He’s not sure it’s a good idea to let Bond further into his house, but too late now.

“You want it or not?” Bond glances around the entryway. He has only a dim recollection of what it looked like the other night. 

“Yes.” Q looks at him with annoyance.

_Good_ , Bond thinks humorlessly. Let him be annoyed.

“Then you remember our deal.” Bond looks around, trying to think of where Q probably spends most of his time. “The kitchen will do.”

Q frowns, but follows him into the warmer room. He was clearly working there before Bond interrupted him. There’s a half-empty mug of tea and a stack of papers on the table. Bond sets the satchel down the table and turns to inspect his surroundings. 

“How long have you had this place?” It's not what he had pictured when he first learned Q was living in London. 

“It belonged to my aunt. She left it to me when she died.” Q itches to grab the laptop and bolt, but a bargain is a bargain. He holds his ground.

Bond unbuttons his overcoat casually, like he’s coming for afternoon tea. He sets it to one side, undoes the buttons on his suit coat quickly, revealing a crisp white shirt, and sits down. 

“Well?”

Q ignores him, steadying his glasses slightly. He wipes his hands on his trousers and kneels awkwardly in front of Bond. He shouldn't _be_ awkward; he’s done this before. But never with Bond, and this, this is unfortunately, exactly what he’s been imagining repetitively for the last few months. Among other things.

Bond rests his hands on the chair arms, watching him silently. His eyes are dark and Q fancies he could see his own mortality if he looked close enough. He leans in, pressing his mouth softly to the crotch of Bond’s trousers. He can smell Bond’s scent as he sucks wetly at the material. 

“Traditionally one unfastens the trousers for a blowjob.” Bond murmurs.

Q pulls off and looks up at him. “I do know what I’m doing, you know.”

“Oh, I know.” 

There’s an underlying threat to Bond’s voice that Q chooses to disregard. He sucks at Bond once more before at last undoing his trousers. There’s a wet stain through Bond’s briefs, outlining his cock. Q licks along the curve, sucking hard at the man through the briefs. After seeing Bond naked every day it’s tantalizing to see him like this.

He can feel Bond respond even if he doesn't want to. 

By the time Q pulls his briefs down to release his cock, Bond’s fully erect. Q touches him, trailing his fingertips over Bond’s foreskin, before slipping him in his mouth briefly.

“Jesus.” Bond’s voice drops to a rasp, knuckles white against the chair arms. 

Q pulls off to lave at the tip, pushing the foreskin back with his tongue. He does it again to lick all around Bond’s shaft before abandoning it to suck at his balls. Bond makes a strangled noise and Q glances up at him.

* * *

This is truly happening. He’s here in Q’s kitchen with Q on his knees, looking up at him, his cock sticking out of Q's mouth.

Bond stares down at him, sliding his hands through Q’s hair.

“Go on.” He doesn't care how ragged his voice sounds. He just wants, and Q lowers his head to his task. Bond strokes his fingers through the dark hair, feeling Q’s head move rhythmically under his hand.

All too soon Bond can feel his balls tighten. He has no idea whether Q has any intention of swallowing or not, but he has one or two ideas of his own. His grip on Q’s hair stays firm until Q tries to pull off. Bond lets him, but holds him there locked between his knees, his hand clenched in Q’s hair. He fists his cock with his free hand, gazing down at Q all the while. 

Q’s still looking up at him silently when Bond comes, pulling Q’s head back further to let himself spill over Q’s face.

Bond lets out a breath he hadn't even realized he’d been holding.

_Now what?_


	20. Chapter 20

_What do you do when you get your revenge?_

If that’s what this even is. Technically, if they’re playing by those rules, Bond has a lot of catching up to do before he’s through with Q.

Now though, mostly Bond’s tired. He thinks he’ll finally be able to sleep soundly tonight, and that’s something.

If Bond leans closer, he can see the faint miniscule scars along Q’s lips, where Bond cut him with his teeth. Bond brushes his thumb over Q’s upper lip and Q stiffens. Bond resists the urge to pull him in and hold him there until Q _begs_. Instead he lets go and Q sits back on his ankles. He pulls his glasses off and wipes at his eyes. 

His face is a mess, Bond’s mess. There’s come dripping down his cheeks and Bond wishes, for the first and only time, that they were back in the facility, simply so that there would be footage of this moment. Footage that he could play over and over again. 

“And now I would like you to go.” Q says very quietly before he stands.

Bond leans back in his chair surveying him. Then he stands quickly, abruptly right there in front of Q, two inches from his face. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

Q blinks at him. “What gives you the idea you have any concept of what I want?”

Bond leans in, his breath brushing Q’s ear. “I’m not the one sporting the hard-on the size of Big Ben.”

“If you were, you’d have a remarkable recovery time,” Q says crisply. 

Bond steps back, quietly amused until it overwhelms him, and he laughs there in Q’s kitchen. “I’m not so bad.” Even for a man his age. There’s a perfectly good reason his ego has not only survived, but thrived this long. 

“Oh, I know.” 

That uncomfortable feeling of _before_ steals through the room, but this time it doesn’t make Bond ache in quite the same way. So Q knows how long it takes him to recover. How many people can say the same? 

Especially people left alive?

That thought leaves Bond cold and he turns, heading straight for the door.

* * *

Q waits until the door closes before he sets his glasses down on the table. In a blur, he finds a towel, runs it under the tap and scrubs at his face until it stings. When he’s clean enough for now, he wipes his glasses as well before finally turning to his laptop. 

Bond kept his word, nothing’s gone, but Q has the distinct sensation of all his cupboard doors being thrown open so Bond could examine the contents. He knows the extent of the files that Bond could access, and he wonders just how long it’ll be before M knows, and before they come for him.

* * *

M gives Bond a new assignment the next day and Bond flies to Mumbai that morning, hung-over and bleary-eyed. 

* * *

Q waits.

One day passes, then a second and a third and there’s nothing, no agents spiriting him away in the night, no formal arrests, nothing. In the end, Q has to conclude that Bond has no intention of telling. 

And for the first time, Q wonders just how much he damaged 007 after all. 

* * *

Bond is in Mumbai for four days and kills two people.

In the midst of strangling the second, fingers tightening around the man’s throat, his thoughts inexplicably drift towards Q.

The erection he gets is entirely due to stress, Bond tells himself, and knows he’s lying even as he presses tighter and the man’s eyes dim. 

Bond lets go of the body and slumps down against the wall. He rests his hands on his knees, breathing silently.

* * *

When he’s disposed of the bodies and returned to his hotel, Bond has a hot shower and a stiff drink.

Only after that does he allow himself to give in and call. He’s put through to Q branch like it’s nothing at all, perfectly natural, which it is, it’s only Bond who’s making something out of nothing.

When he hears Q say, “Q speaking,” he hangs up and lies back flat on the bed. 

It takes Q two minutes to call him back.

“Are you in need of assistance, 007?” Q’s voice is entirely professional.

Somehow Bond is reassured by this. “Well,” he glances at the bulge under his towel. “You could say that, I suppose.”

Brief silence from Q’s line; Bond holds his breath.

“Did you complete your mission?”

“Not yet,” which is a lie because Bond has the briefcase standing beside the bed and the dead men aren’t going anywhere ever again, but he’s still hard and,

“Do you need help completing your mission?”

Bond blinks because wanting something is different than hoping for it. “Yes.” His voice doesn’t belong to him. It’s low, but unfaltering. His voice is somehow more confident than he is.

“Hang on.” There’s a momentry delay during Bond imagines Q closing the door to his cubicle, or makes sure everyone is out of the office. Possibly Q is doing nothing at all, simply prolonging the moment. 

Bond’s hand sweats, holding the phone. He’s tempted to hang up again. 

“Right,” Q’s voice keeps the same even keel. “You don’t have any lubrication of any sort, do you?”

“Normally you start with ‘where are you?’ or even better, ‘what are you wearing?’” Bond says dryly. 

“I however already know both those things.” Q informs him. “You’ve been back at your hotel for exactly forty-two minutes. You sent your suit down to be dry-cleaned, tipped the porter, took a long shower, and had a drink before you made that call.”

“Checking up on me?”

“Doing my job.”

“Which includes checking up on me.”

“Yes. Handy that.”

Bond chuckles. 

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“No, I don’t have any.” He doesn’t carry lube around in his pocket, though he’s beginning to think maybe he should. 

Q sighs. “I should have known. Very well. Please spit in the center of your left palm.”

“I’m not left-handed.”

“I’m perfectly aware of that.”

Bond gives in again and does it. “Now what?”

“Unwrap your towel.” 

Bond cradles the phone against his ear as he does. His cock is thick and full against his belly. He stretches out on his back again.

“Place your hand on your penis,”

“Cock, _please_.” Bond interjects. He’s not sure he can handle a conversation where Q keeps saying ‘penis’ in that tone. Eventually he’ll just start snickering.

There’s another quiet sigh from the other end of the line, and Q says, “All right. Put your hand on your cock then, but don’t move it until I say so.”

“That’s better,” The faint wet of his palm sticks to his cock, making Bond grunt.

“Now, very slowly, stroke yourself.”

The sensation of using his left hand makes it awkward, forcing him to pace himself carefully. Bond’s more aware of each stroke which he supposes is why Q told him to do it. 

“Suck on your thumb,”

Bond rolls his eyes, but does it anyway.

“Pull your foreskin back and run your thumb over the slit.”

Bond obeys. Every action’s stilted with the left-hand angle, but his hips rock upward regardless as his breath catches. Everything within him crying out, _now now now now now._

“Are you close?” 

“Yes,” Bond manages, the word husky in his throat.

“Do you want to come?” Q sounds as though he’s inquiring about the state of the weather.

“You bloody well know the answer to that,” Bond fancies he can picture Q’s smile. 

“Suppose I said no.” Q’s curious.

“I’d say, ‘you bastard,’ hang up, and finish myself off.” 

“Had a feeling that would be the answer.” Q hesitates, then, “If I were there, I’d be settled between your thighs, slowly sucking on your balls until you couldn’t hold back any longer, and”

Bond’s groan drowns out his words as he spills over his fist. He lies there, panting in the silent aftermath.

“There,” Q’s voice remains as cool and collected as ever. “I take it the mission is complete now.”

Bond closes his eyes, trying not to laugh. “Yes. I’ll be back in London tomorrow at 1300.” He doesn’t know why he’s telling Q this. He doesn’t know why _this_ just _happened_. His come is cooling on his belly and he’s trying not to laugh at Q.

“Very good. Goodnight, 007.” There’s a pause. Q’s waiting for something.

“Goodnight. Q.”

Bond hangs up and rests his forearm across his eyes.


	21. Chapter 21

Q is there in the background when Bond turns the briefcase over at HQ. Bond hesitates, but when he looks up again, Q is gone.

* * *

He is however lingering in the stairwell when Bond ducks in there for a covert smoke.

"I'd thought you'd have given up by now." Q leans against the wall, hands in his pockets.

"Old habits," Bond lights his cigarette and inhales. New old habits. He had given up for a while, and then, in that first moment in the facility when Q had offered him a smoke and this had all begun. He takes another drag and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Why didn't you tell?" Q asks abruptly. "Was it an insurance policy? In case I decided to share what happened?” He pulls his hands out of his pockets, scratching the back of his neck. “Because I never would."

"I know," Bond interrupts. He doesn’t have to hear this speech; he’s not sure he can handle this speech.

"Do you?" Q says softly. "Do you really? How do you know that?”

Bond simply curls a hand around the back of his neck, pressing Q back up against the wall. He’s got a knee between Q’s thighs, nudging at him.

"Bond, whatever you're doing,"

"Shut up," Bond traces the curve of Q's lip with his forefinger and then he lowers his mouth to Q's. He knows Q wouldn't tell because he's been through the rest of the facility’s information that MI6 had collected and there's nothing on Bond, beyond the fact that he was held prisoner there. Q's kept all the files on him safe. There's a strange sort of comfort in that knowledge.

Q's mouth is closed to his for an unbearable moment and then Q sighs, surrenders, his lips part, and Bond's in.

Christ, heat, far too much heat, thin fingers on his lapels, their bodies leaning in towards each other. Q's breathing soft against his lips, tongue entangled around Bond’s. Bond is drowning. His knee is still rubbing against Q’s crotch, and Q's leaning into his touch.

Then Q starts pulling back back. His cheeks are flushed, and Bond remembers how he looked on his knees, his cock on Q’s tongue. His own cock stands to attention from the vivid memory. Christ, he could fuck Q right here, right now.

"I don't think this is a very good idea." Q's voice is hoarse, and Bond's so fucking _pleased_ that he managed to have this effect on Q. At long last he's gotten through.

"Has anything that's happened between us so far been considered a good idea?" Bond tilts his head to one side. His fingers play along the side of Q’s head, starting to inch through his hair.

"Technically no, I suppose not." Q rests his head against the wall. "But you should have turned me over to M, and that's what concerns me." How is Bond not thinking better of this? Does he truly only think with his cock?

"Why?"

"Because England matters to you, and that laptop, that information, _me_ , could be potentially very dangerous." And by very dangerous, Q means, _why the fuck haven’t you turned me over to the authorities? You work for the British secret service? What the hell is wrong with you?_

"You're no danger to England," Bond's fingers are still at his neck, but it's still a caress, and that's what worries Q.

"No. The thing is, I never said I was loyal to MI6. I work for them. The job is what matters." And it’s only as long as the job interests him. He can't deny that, and he won't.

"How can you say that?"

"It's very simple, I suppose. I've never considered myself a citizen of any particular country.”

Bond blinks. “What does that mean?”

“Only that I enjoy the rest of the world too much. I do like London, but it's not everything.”

“It’s not everything.” Bond repeats. “All right, what do you hold loyalties to then?” This he needs to know. If not London, England, what? What else do you have if you don't serve queen and country?

“If you must know, nothing in particular.” No countries, no people, no things hold sway over Q like that, and he's perfectly fine with that, thank you very much.

“Nothing.” Bond finds this hard to believe.

Q shrugs. “The pursuit of information, perhaps, if you want to get technical.”

“If I want to get technical,” Bond repeats again. He takes a step away, digging his cigarettes out of his pocket once more. “Yes, I guess wanting to get technical would explain why I’m trying to fuck a machine.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“No,” Bond shakes his head. " Just, no.” He's done with this.

“I told you this wasn’t a good idea.” Q says softly.

“Then why the bloody hell did you call me back?” Bond shouts.

Q looks at him. “I told you I had no loyalties, not that,”

“You made your fucking point.” Bond stabs his cigarette out against the wall next to Q’s head. “From now on, you do your job, and I’ll do mine, and keep your impulses to yourself.” He goes back out the door leaving Q alone in the stairwell.


	22. Chapter 22

Of all the things, Q really should have been prepared for that. Bond was molded by his loyalties; or rather his loyalties had been fashioned for him. Of course the concept is important to him.

* * *

Bond drives out of the city too fast, the wheels spinning smoothly along the road. His hands clench the steering wheel so tightly there are indents when he finally stops, pulling off on a side road somewhere around Nottingham.

He gets out of the car and stands by the side of the road. The wind is chilly. He pulls his collar tighter, leaning against the car, lighting a cigarette.

Bond stands there smoking until the pack is empty and his throat is too dry. There’s a flask in the glove compartment, but it’s empty.

So he drives back to London, immersing himself in the silence.

* * *

It wasn’t a risk he’d ever been prepared to take. Q should have known that, should have known _Bond_. How the hell could Q have ever thought he’d stand by and do nothing?

* * *

Bond deletes the files concerning him, and then he delivers the flash drive to M as he had always planned on doing.

“Where the hell did you get this?” M stares at him. The wealth of information in her hand is unexpected to say the least. She has her suspicions of course.

“Picked it up on my travels,” Bond tells her casually. "Thought it might be useful."

M doesn’t believe him, and he doesn’t expect her to.

* * *

Q knows what Bond did when after three weeks of the flash drive getting picked at by the other so-called experts, they finally ask him to trace the information.

Q checks the files, and smiles.

* * *

He knows when Bond is next scheduled to see M, knows instinctively this time Bond won’t come down to see him. So he waits in the corridor, tapping a pen absentmindedly between his fingers.

Bond comes striding down the hall. He looks terrible, and Q’s reminded of the way he’d look after one of their sessions. The exhaustion in Bond’s body is tantalizing, tugging at Q’s nerves. He knows exactly how long it would take to get Bond off when he’s this tired.

Bond pauses as he sees Q standing there.

“I should have known you’d figure out a way around it.” Q looks at him. “Should I offer my thanks, or,”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Bond says brusquely. He brushes past Q into M’s office, closing the door behind him.

Q stands there, pen stilling between his fingers. “That, could have gone better.”

He sighs and heads back to his desk.

* * *

The thing is, when Bond does manage to sleep, he still dreams of Q.

* * *

Bond badgers M relentlessly until she sends him to Moscow and Bond loses himself in vodka and warm thighs.

It doesn’t help.

Nothing helps.

Everything in him yearns to return to that smug little traitor. He knows traitor isn’t even the right word because Q (damn him) is right. He never promised Bond anything. Never said that he cared about the empire one way or another. Bond had simply stupidly _naively_ assumed.

But if he subtracts that from the equation, Q remains.

Nothing's changed. And if nothing has changed, then, Bond’s focus remains the same as well.

* * *

Moscow is when it goes wrong. Bond's arrested and held for 24 hours, under his cover identity. The hours seem longer in that cold, dark cell. Bond sits on the cot and stares fixedly at the wall.

He’s never liked being caged, but there’s something particularly depressing about this jail. The sour damp smell of overcooked food and sweat drifts through the thin walls, along with the cold. He waits, wondering how long it will be before M comes for him this time.

* * *

When he’s finally released and sent back to London, M’s waiting with the open file before her on the desk.

“The report says you attacked her.”

Bond’ mouth is dry, lips split. “We were… ( _mid-coitus_ , Q states in his head) and things got…( _rather out of control._ )”

‘ _Fuck off!_ ’ Bond screams to that infernal internal voice.

M just looks at him. “Why this woman? Why this time? You’ve had intimate relations since you returned from,”

“Are we really going to talk about this?” Bond rubs at his eyes tiredly. He’s not sure he can handle talking to M about his sexual habits.

“It appears we need to.” M’s tone is level, but she’s displeased. Bond knows the signs.

“Marvelous.” He wishes he had a drink. M’s not going anywhere, so he sighs and tries to explain.

“She,”

It had been unfortunate. The woman looked nothing like Q, but something about the curve of her mouth had drawn Bond in and when she laughed, he wondered what it would take to make Q laugh, and how he'd look when he truly smiled.

It had started out fine. They’d gone back to her apartment after a few drinks in the bar. Bond kissed her shoulder as she slipped her dress off; she smelled like roses.

In the middle of fucking, when they were flush against each other, his fingers pulling at her buttocks, she’d gazed up at him, wide-eyes and curved mouth, and said, “You must be an orphan, you have so much love, so much anger, to give.”

His fingers tightened and the girl gasped, and then her nails raked him back. She arched up under him, digging her heels into his back.

They were still fucking brutal and raw, sweat slicking Bond's back, when her brother walked in. He shouted at Bond in Russian, throwing a lamp across the room. It crashed into the wall and Bond jerked out of the girl, causing her to cry out.

He tried to reason with the man, but by then the police were already on their way.

“What’s it matter?” Bond says irritably.

“Are you truly idiotic enough to ask that question? If you’re going to behave like this,”

“What?" Bond rests his hands on her desk, glaring at her. "I’m allowed to fuck for England as long as I behave, but if I play rough, you get to punish me? Is that it?”

M’s lips thin. “I will not tolerate this sort of behavior, 007. You’re on suspension for two weeks.”

“Fine by me.” Bond straightens up.

Her eyes narrow, and he knows he’s done it this time. “Make it three.”

Bond opens his mouth, and then shuts it because if he doesn’t have the job, he doesn’t have anything. He's already uncertain if he can survive three weeks.

“Surrender your weapon and key card downstairs.” M turns back to her computer.

“M,”

“Dismissed.” She’s done with him.

Bond goes, tail between his legs.

* * *

He’s a wreck, but he was a wreck long before Q found him.

He’s fucked traitors before. Gone to bed with them, lied to them, and persuaded them to tell him lies and truths in return. He did use to be better at lying; Q’s not wrong about that. Now he can’t summon the energy necessary. Still, there’s nothing else other than the job.

* * *

Q's never claimed to have any loyalties. But if he has none, what drives him? That’s all Bond can think about. Possibly that’s what keeps pulling him back to the man. Or possibly he’s simply, plainly broken and he’ll spin this pattern out over and over again until his dying day.

He manages the first week of his suspension, alcohol coursing through him liberally.

* * *

But by the start of the second week, he _can’t_.

* * *

Bond breaks into Q's house one afternoon, moving through the silent rooms like a shadow.

It’s not really Q's house after all and anyway, Bond doesn’t know what he’s looking for. He goes through the rooms, examining things. There are leather-bound books and framed pictures and furniture shrouded in dust cloths. A cupboard full of tea. A back garden with neatly trimmed hedges. Notebooks filled with indecipherable handwriting, records, a closet full of furs smelling strongly of mothballs. Tangible things, but nothing of Q.

There are no secrets to be revealed here, and Bond leaves, disappointment echoing in every fading footstep.


	23. Chapter 23

The next time Bond shows up on Q’s doorstep, he doesn’t even have a good excuse. Not really. Q’s told him the way things are, and he should have taken it and run.

But he can’t. He’s here.

He knocks on the door quickly twice, knuckles sharp on the wood.

Q opens the door and looks at him. He’s wearing a sweater and looks younger here than in the office. Bond glances up and down the street before really looking at him. He really should know what to say by now and still the words won't come.

For once Q speaks first. “I should also have known you’d never endanger Britain and for that I’d like to apologize.” He should have known; he should have said that to Bond first of all.

“Apology accepted,” Still Bond hesitates.

Q holds the door open further and at last Bond steps inside. Q closes the door and turns round to face him. Bond's standing there in the middle of his sitting room as though he’s never been here before, which is patently untrue.

“You’ve been in my house.”

“Obviously.” As though Bond could forget that night. It’s a partially blurred memory, but a vivid one nonetheless.

“When I wasn’t here.” Q clarifies.

“Yes.” There’s no point in denying it.

“That’s breaking and entering, you know.” Q informs him, even as he wonders where Bond looked, what he went through. What had he hoped to find?

“Oh, I know.” Bond nods to himself. He’s not particularly worried about that crime coming back to haunt him. It’s not at the top of his list. He looks around the room aimlessly then back at Q. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

“There’s no precise rule book for this sort of situation,” Q tells him. This is one situation he can truthfully say he’s never encountered before, never come across in any of his research, never experienced firsthand.

He starts across the room toward the kitchen and Bond reaches out a hand, resting it against his stomach. “So, what, we play it by ear, make it up as we go along?” Bond leans in, his palm warm on Q's belly, even through the material. “I can’t trust you.”

“Are you sure?” Q’s assessing Bond’s touch. It’s possessive, but also questioning. He might even go so fall as to categorize it as hopeful. Q likes it.

“Give me a reason that I can.” Bond challenges, fingers tightening in Q’s sweater.

“You’re completely at liberty here; this is your territory so to speak,”

“So,” Bond’s hand slips up to cup the back of Q’s neck. He wants to back away, retreat; his hands have different ideas. They want to get closer. He's always had greedy hands.

“I’ve never lied to you.” Q looks at him levelly. “Can you say the same?”

“You little shit.” Bond pulls at his collar, hauling Q close. “You think that makes you the trustworthy one?”

“Not in the slightest,” Q shakes his head. “You simply asked for a reason. I thought that might be an acceptable one.”

Bond’ hands tighten and then he releases Q. “You’re not wrong.” It’s true, as far as he can tell Q’s never lied to him, done plenty of other things perhaps, but not that.

So now what? He lets Q go? Let him work at MI6 in peace? Let him simply be? Bond considers it, but he doesn’t much care for the idea. What he can’t tell is what Q thinks or wants, and that bothers him more than he cares to admit.

“What about you?” He asks, taking a step back as he waits to hear the answer.

“Me?”

“I walk out of that door, what would you do?”

“Close the door and make myself a cup of tea.”

Bond manages not to roll his eyes, but Q’s not done. “Tomorrow, I’d go into the office, sit at my desk, do my work, and periodically wonder if you’d be popping in to distract me.”

“And if I didn’t?”

“I’d be slightly disappointed.”

“Really?” Bond leans in again, hands skimming over Q's hips.

“Not enough to keep me from getting my work done, mind you, but a little distracted nonetheless.”

“And then what?”

“Then I’d monitor your movements during your assignments. I’d still be keeping track of what equipment you’re sent out with on those assignments. In short, I’d do the same things I’d do anyway if you don’t walk out that door.”

“And if I don’t, what then?”

Q gazes at him. “If you stay, I suppose you’ll find out. But that’s really up to you.”

Bond pulls back then turns and walks straight to the front door. Q watches as Bond touches the doorknob, and then casually locks it instead.

* * *

Turning to lean his back against door, Bond gazes across the room at Q. “Surprised?”

“There was a sixty-five percent chance you’d leave,” Q tells him. He heads into the kitchen to fill the kettle with water before flicking the switch.

When he turns round Bond's there, in the kitchen doorway. He’s taken his coat off, his collar’s askew and Q thinks about reaching out to straighten it. But he wants to see what Bond will do, so his hands busy themselves with getting out his mug and dropping a teabag into it.

“Oh?” Bond looks around the kitchen searchingly. Q must have some alcohol somewhere. He’s not sure he can handle what comes next, whatever it is, without a libation of some sort.

“There’s a brandy decanter in the study,” Q tells him, still gazing at the kettle. “Help yourself. I never drink it.”

 _Generous to a fault_. “Right.”

Bond leaves him there in the kitchen to pour himself a stiff brandy. He drinks it down quickly before pouring a second.

There’s a fire set in the fireplace so he lights it, feeding it slowly until it’s burning bright. Bond stands there, gazing at the flames.

He looks up at last to see Q standing there in the doorway, gazing at him. “Cozy.”

“Mmm,” Bond steps back, standing in front of the fire. What does he do here? What does Q truly want from him? He’s asked this question so many times. Still no closer to an answer than before. But he’s here and Q doesn’t seem to mind him staying, nor wish him to leave.

Abruptly, he’s tired of the game. It’s past the time for this; he doesn’t play _this_ game with Q. Q who’s seen him naked more times than Bond can count, but more importantly, knows his inner nakedness.

Bond turns to face him. “Which way’s the bedroom?”

Q raises his eyebrows. “That’s a tad forward.”

“Really?” Bond inquires. “After everything we’ve been through. You’ve had your finger in my arse.”

Q leans against the doorjamb. “You’ve had your cock between my thighs.”

“You forced me to come how many times?” Bond retorts.

“You liked it,” Q murmurs.

“No.”

“I think, yes.”

“No.” Bond moves in closer. “Maybe. A little.”

Q smiles.

“Your mouth on my cock,” Bond mutters.

“Your hands on my throat,” Q reminds him.

Bond stills and Q wonders if he’s ruined the moment.

Then Bond shrugs. “You made me masturbate to save someone’s life.”

‘Does that really balance you shooting me?”

“I think you should shut up now.” Bond’s in front of him now, resting one hand on the doorjamb above Q’s head.

“Or what?” Q looks up at him with those eyes that make Bond want to drown a thousand times and still break free through to the surface.

“Or I may forget what I’m intending to do, and try to kill you again.”

“Oh, and what are you intending to do?”

“This,” Bond leans in, kissing him.

* * *

Q kisses him back, letting Bond’s body meld against his until Bond makes that low, hungry sound low in his throat and Q pulls off.

“When was the last time you ate something?”

“What’s the matter?” Bond braces himself against the doorway. He doesn’t want food damnit; he wants Q.

Q shrugs him off, reaching for his phone. He disappears back into the kitchen as he orders two Thai takeaways.

Bond loosens his tie in confusion, without any idea what’s going on.

Q places his phone on the table and reaches for his tea. It’s already grown tepid and he makes a face at it.

“If you were going to go to this much effort, you could have at least brought a bottle of wine.” He tells Bond who follows him back into the kitchen.

Bond stares at him. “This isn’t a date, Q.”

“Oh?” Q raises an eyebrow. “What would you call it?”

Bond shakes his head. You don’t _date_ men who did what Q did. Bond may be crazy, but he’s not that crazy. Usually he doesn’t date anyone. Dating takes effort. Effort requires thought.

Thinking about people he wants to screw is exhausting. Usually he screws them and leaves.

It’s far easier that way.

Q though, Q’s standing there simply looking at him, his sweater rumpled and hair slightly mussed.

“Do you want me to go get wine?” Bond asks, uncertain.

“It’d go nicely with the food.”

“Red or white.”

“Red.”

“Right.” Bond grabs his coat and goes out the door.

* * *

There’s an off license just down the block. Bond takes this opportunity to have a quick smoke and try to clear his head. What the fuck are they trying to do here? He can't wine and dine Q. The idea is ridiculous.

* * *

The food's arrived by the time Bond gets back with the wine.

Q pours it and pushes a glass across the counter towards him. Bond accepts it gratefully. His stomach growls and Q looks at him pointedly.

“I eat.” Bond’s defensive for no reason. He doesn’t have to explain himself to Q.

“When?” Q murmurs. He places the food on two thick white china plates, grabs forks and sets them down on the table. Bond takes a gulp of wine. They’re really doing this.

_All right then._

* * *

They eat quickly, and in silence for the most part. Q’s methodical about the matter. He enjoys food, but it’s also simply energy for his body. Bond couldn’t care less. He watches Q as he eats, tracking the motion of his throat as he swallows, the faint flush in his cheeks as he pours more wine for the both of them.

“What am I eating?” Bond says at last. He knows technically what it is, but his brain is jumping about too quickly to focus. The meat is soft and succulent on his tongue, the juices savory but not what he wants to taste.

“Ped Palo,” Q tells him. “Duck.”

“I know it’s duck.” Bond shoves his plate back.

“Why are you here?” Q wipes his mouth with his napkin and Bond wishes he’d moved in quicker, catching those lips with his thumb.

“You want me.” Bond says, habit, habit, always habit, but truth at the same time.

“Do I?” Q sets his plate aside and slips his glasses off to clean them on his sweater.

“Yes,” Bond takes a sip of wine, waiting till Q’s glasses are back in place before saying, “You want to touch me.”

“What makes you think I want to touch you again?” Q’s genuinely curious. “I’ve done it before.”

“You want to,” Bond answers him. “You can’t resist.” He still remembers the way Q’s hands hesitated before they began touching him that particular day. There was a hint of desire under that detached contact.

“And why’s that?”

“Because everything you think about yourself, everything you know about the human body and mind, always has something left to be explored. Sometimes there’s an explicable spark of lust that can’t be explained, and you want it, no matter who the person is.”

“Whom.” Q corrects automatically. “You’re not wrong.”

“So you do want me,” Bond grins.

Q shrugs his shoulder elegantly. “It’s a routine fascination with one’s subject. These things happen.”

“Of course it is. That’s why you’ve stayed at MI6.”

Q’s eyebrows go up. “Really.”

“Yes.” Bond smiles at him. “Because you remembered what I said.”

“And what was that?” Q waits.

“I said I wouldn’t kill you, but I never said I wouldn’t fuck you.”

* * *

Q picks up their plates, carrying them over to the sink. Bond follows. As soon as Q's set the plates down, Bond moves in like a predator, every last inch of him invading Q’s space, pushing him flat against the counter, hands gripping Q’s hips.

“I’m going to fuck you,” Bond breathes in his ear. “I’m going to fuck you in your bed so that your sheets stink like me, and every time you go to sleep, you’ll think of me, inside you.” He brushes his cock against Q’s arse tantalizingly.

“I could just wash them.”

“But you won’t.” Bond bites at his neck and Q shudders. He turns his head and Bond kisses him, cock pressed against the crease of Q’s arse.

There are hot, familar spices on Bond’s tongue and Q licks at him, tasting him, wanting more. “You’re right about one thing.”

“Am I?”

“I do want you.” Q turns around and kisses Bond full on the mouth.


	24. Chapter 24

Bond’s mouth travels down Q’s throat to the curve of his shoulder, “I want,” Christ, he wants a million things. His hands pull at Q’s sweater, dragging it up over his shoulders.

“Are you trying to smother me?” Q’s voice is muffled, coming from somewhere inside his sweater.

“Hold _still_ ,” Bond manages to get the sweater off at last. Q’s wearing a collared shirt underneath and Bond reaches for the top button automatically. Skin, he needs skin. Contact. Touching. _Q_.

“I can undress myself.”

“I know.” Bond unbuttons it anyway, pressing his lips to Q’s collarbone. There’s a brief flutter as Q’s breath sharpens and Bond grins against his skin.

Q’s hands, meanwhile, are by no means idle, loosening Bond’s belt and pulling it free. “Bedroom, now.”

“Now who’s being forward,”

“Unless you prefer to fuck on the carpet.”

Bond’s hands still. It’s certainly tempting. But he wants to see Q sprawled in a bed, splayed open and looking up at him with those eyes. “Maybe next time.” His fingertip brushes over Q’s nipple through his shirt. “And there will be a next time.”

“We’ll see.”

Bond chuckles. There will be a next time. This is only the beginning, or rather the middle. They had their beginning long ago.

He slides his hands down to cup Q’s arse, bring him up against him. “How many ways are you going to beg me to bring you off?”

Q leans his head back, eyeing Bond. “What makes you think I’m going to beg at all?”

“You know I’m going to make you,” Bond rubs against him. “Turnabout is fair play after all.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Q’s amused. There’s a smile lurking under the surface and Bond wants more than anything to lure it out.

Bond undoes another button, and another until he can fold Q’s shirt back, revealing his right nipple. He lets his tongue flick out teasingly, dancing over the nub. “Beg me.”

“Bond, please take me to bed, now.” Q sounds as though he’s going through a pile of old post.

“Not good enough, though said very prettily.”

“Bond, if you don’t take me to bed upstairs and fuck me, I’m going to go ahead and take a shower.”

Bond’s teeth drag over Q’s nipple, not letting it go. His thumbs dig into the curve of Q’s hips.

Q inhales, “Fuck me, Bond, it doesn’t matter where, just do it.”

Bond straightens up, leaving Q’s nipple reddened. “Yes, it does.” He takes hold of Q’s collar and nods towards the stairs. “Come on.”

* * *

Q’s bedroom is cold. Q shivers as he finishes unbuttoning his shirt quickly. His nipples, one sore, one untouched, are aching and erect. They’re not the only thing. He discards his shoes and socks, then wishes he hadn’t. Why the fuck is the room so _cold_?

Bond unbuttons his own shirt languidly. He doesn’t seem to mind the cold. He drapes his shirt across the floor, unties his shoes and stepping out of them quickly, dropping his socks on top. Bond lets his trousers follow and there, finally, his erection is straining against those sleek black briefs that Q’s dying to touch. So he does, going to Bond, and tugging at them while Bond laughs, and his cock bobs up, eager and hard. Q’s hand slides over it, as he’s been dying to do for months now.

He’s so close to Bond’s chest, he can smell him. Sweat, and lust and some cologne Q doesn’t recognize, not that he’s good at recognizing any colognes. Bond’s hands run down his back, squeezing his arse again.

“You like doing that.”

“I like your arse.” Bond says matter-of-factly. It’s not the only thing he likes, but it’s definitely near the top of the list.

Q gives his cock a tug and pulls Bond’s briefs down all the way till Bond can step out of them.

“Here.” Q reaches again for his own clothes, getting his shirt off, but then Bond’s ahead of him now, pushing Q back to the bed. He pulls Q’s trousers off, revealing thin gray y-fronts.

Bond smirks up at him and Q just shakes his head and sighs. He lays his head back on the bed as Bond settles between Q’s thighs. There's a pause as Bond studies the bullet scar on Q's thigh. Then he kisses it briefly before lowering his head to lick a thick stripe along Q’s cock through his underwear.

“Traditionally, one removes the underclothing for a blowjob,” Q mimics Bond’s voice perfectly and Bond stifles a laugh, burying his face in Q’s crotch.

“I do know what I’m doing.” He mumbles to the bulge resting against his mouth.

“Christ, I’m well aware of that.” Q returns to his normal tone, staring up at the ceiling overhead.

Bond stretches out alongside him, hand on Q’s belly as he rests his chin in his palm. He keeps his hand there for a moment, before reaching it down to tug Q’s underthings off. At last they’re both naked.

Q’s fully aware that Bond knows what he’s doing. The 00 agent has bedded countless partners, all of whom seem thoroughly satisfied. Bond is a creature utterly at home in his sexual habits and requirements. Q knows his body well too, the different parts where Bond flushes when he’s aroused, when he’s scared. Knows the scars across Bond’s skin like code. He could rewrite it in his sleep.

He turns his head to look up at Bond. “You said you dream about me.”

“Yes.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

Bond drops a kiss on his mouth, tongue sliding delicately between Q’s lips. “For you to ask me, just like that.” He slides down Q’s body to return to his cock.

“Spread your legs.”

Q obliges, watching Bond with interest. Bond traces around Q’s hole with his forefinger softly, before pushing in.

It’s dry and rough, and Q’s cock reacts exactly as he knew it would, eagerly.

Bond smirks, pushing a little further. “I see I’m not the only one with kinks here.”

“Never said you were,” Q gasps faintly as Bond stretches him. It’s been a while, and he imagines that when Bon’s finally inside him, it will be just the right amount of pain and pleasure. There’s a drop of pre-come forming at his cock.

Bond lowers his head to lick at it, grinning up at Q, who has to stifle the urge to throw a pillow at him.

“Get on with it.”

“As you like,” Bond wiggles his finger and Q’s fingers clench at the sheets. “Where do you keep your lube?”

“In the bathroom cabinet, where do most people keep their lube?"

Bond shrugs and rolls off the bed. “I have no absolutely no idea.”

Q’s eyes follow his backside as he goes out of the room.

* * *

When Bond returns he has lube, as well as a handful of condoms.

Q raises an eyebrow. “Ambitious, are we?”

“I just assumed you’d want to be careful.” Bond tears one of the packets open and rolls it over his cock.

Q doesn’t tell him not to. It’s not important this time; it matters that Bond thinks this is something that’s important. _That_ matters. Q appreciates the courtesy, and if he hadn’t known the exact facts of Bond’s sexual history and health, he would have insisted on that condom.

Bond moves over him, fitting his cock to Q’s body. He leans in, nudging the tip of his cock into him slowly.

The first thrust in makes Bond freeze. He could stay here, half in Q, half out, for all eternity and it’d be perfectly all right. The heat inching up to sheath his cock is fucking bliss.

“Bond, if you don’t move now, I’ll,”

Bond silences him by thrusting further in. Christ, that’s even better. He gazes down at Q who’s staring back at him with an unreadable expression.

He moves slowly, taking in how Q’s body reacts to his. Legs spread, the first beads of sweat appearing on his arms, his lips slightly parted as he focuses. He drags his fist along Q’s shaft, feeling him shake under Bond’s touch. There’s a flicker at the corner of Bond’s eyelids, _dead bodies, cold skin, blood, pleasure spiking sweetly through him_ , and Q gasps as Bond’s grip on him tightens painfully.

Bond flinches. He pulls out of Q, sliding down to sit on the floor next to the bed. Q just sits there on the bed, looking at him. There’s a dull, heavy silence in the room.

“I,” Bond grinds the heels of his palms against his eyes.

Q’s hand rests on his head. “I’m sorry.”

Bond stares up at him. “You’re sorry.”

“I wanted to know how you worked, I wanted to understand you.” Q’s fingers slide down by his ear, soft, easing Bond into it. “All the time, I didn’t consider the exact consequences.” He hesitates, “That’s not entirely true.” He _had_ , it just hadn’t mattered. Bond hadn’t mattered. The outcome hadn’t mattered. Somewhere along the line, something had shifted slightly. The plan had reset.

“Now.”

“ _Now_ ," Bond's lip curls. "Now, it’s a little late, you fucking,” _Ruined, broken_ , words that don’t fit with what Q did to him. He doesn’t know what to say, how to say it.

Q’s hand curls into his hair, pulling Bond, “Come here.”

Bond turns, kneeling up between Q’s thighs. Q’s hands run from his shoulders to his jaw.

“I meant what I said then. That one day in amongst all the others. You didn’t believe me then, but it’s true. You’re rare, unique. And you were right, I wouldn’t change you.”

His mouth is soft as his lips touch Bond’s.

Bond's blank for a moment, and then his hands slip around Q's back, pressing him down on the bed. Q sinks down beneath him. Bond keeps his focus on Q's mouth, deliberate and lingering, until Q is lax and pliant against him, before easing two fingers back into him.

Q arches into it. “That, just like that.”

“Are you giving me orders?”

“Yes,” Q breathes. “Fuck, yes.” His breath catches, as Bond curls his fingers. “God, you’re.”

“I know.” Bond says matter-of-factly.

Q laughs, and Bond’s smile spreads across his face, before he buries it in Q’s skin.

Bond eases back into Q like slipping into water. This time having him on his belly so he can watch the way Q’s spine moves. There’s something about his bones that delight Bond. He strokes a hand along Q’s spine as he moves inside him.

“Are you petting me?” Q’s chin is resting on his folded arms.

“Yes, good,”

“If you call me boy, I’ll make certain that your next round of equipment is faulty.”

“You’d never do that.” Bond thrusts lazily, savoring the feel of Q’s body around his.

“I suppose not.” Q pushes back to meet him and Bond takes the hint, moving faster, until Q’s breath is coming faster.

Bond pulls him back on his knees, resting his back against Bond’s chest. He snakes his fist around Q's cock, dragging it out until Q is squirming in his grasp, arching back against him. Bond has his other arm around Q's waist, holding him in place, Q's hips strain in vain, as Bond kisses his throat, his hair. Q squirms again, clenching delightfully around Bond's cock.

"Bond," Q gasps.

"Shh," Bond rocks his hips, making Q shiver as he drags his cock halfway out, delighting in the way Q's arse clings to his cock as he does this, and thrusts back in. "Who was the last person to fuck you?"

"Why?" Q turns his head to look at him.

Bond pulls at his cock cruelly. "Curious,"

"Curious as to why I fucked them, or how we fucked, what?"

"Everything." Bond lowers him back down on the bed, to knead at Q's cheeks, before ducking his head down to lick between them.

Q braces his palms on the bed against Bond's onslaught, thrusting back against his eager mouth.

Bond pulls back, smoothing his thumb over Q's hole, before pushing his tongue inside him once again.

He loves the way Q shudders against his tongue, Bond's mouth licking him open until Q is loose and open for him, Bond has three fingers in him this time, finger-fucking Q intently as he strokes him off until Q comes, cock jerking between Bond’s fingers.

* * *

They lie there in the silence. Bond rests on his back, one arm behind his head, cigarette sticking out of his mouth as he lights it. Q's stretched out beside him, limbs draped over Bond’s. Bond's fingers play through his hair, as he smokes, staring vaguely at the ceiling.

It seems unreal, this moment, this space. Q's breath on his skin.

Q's phone buzzes, and he reaches for it, eyes still closed. "Yes?”

He sits up, sliding away from Bond. "Yes, right away." Q stands setting the phone down. "I have to go into the office."

"Why?" Bond stretches his body out, _hello naked here_ , why would anyone leave?

Q pauses, looking down at him. "Do you really expect me to tell you?"

Bond shrugs, casually turning so his cock is on full display. "Why not?" Q's not loyal. Why shouldn't he tell Bond?

Q just shakes his head. "You're impossible."

"Come back to bed and I'll show you impossible," Bond says slyly.

Q ignores him and goes into the bathroom, turning the shower on.

He’s fucked out and he has to be at MI6 in twenty minutes, presentable and not smelling like Bond. Q rubs his face in his hands with a silent sigh. Then he steps under the spray and carries on.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it at last. *deep breath* Thanks for reading, everyone. I hope you enjoyed it. :)

There’s a semi-critical situation in Hong-Kong. Q handles it with his usual aplomb, but it’s still mid-morning by the time he’s though. He buys a cup of tea and heads home again.

Bond’s not there when Q reaches the house. The bed is empty, bedclothes still rumpled. Q pauses, touching the sheets for a moment. They do smell like Bond.

He hesitates for a few moments, before collecting a few things in his bag as well as his laptop and takes the tube over to Bond’s flat.

* * *

Bond pulls the door open after the third knock. He stands there, shirt off, pajama trousers on, blinking blearily at Q.

“I’m sorry, were you sleeping?” Somehow Q hadn’t expected that.

“Well, I was a little tired.” Bond says drolly. “The man I was with last night kept coming and coming.”

“Surely you’re more than a match for that.” Q shifts the strap on his bag. “Look,” He’s momentarily distracted by Bond’s nipples.

Bond waits.

“You said,” Q murmurs, “Ah, that there was going to be a next time.”

“Too bloody right.” Bond pulls him into the flat.

* * *

This time they do fuck on the carpet.

Twice.

Before they make it to the bedroom.

* * *

Q lies on his back in Bond’s bed. Bond's flat is far warmer than his. Idly, he wonders about Bond’s heating bill, and whether it might be more advantageous to look into renting a flat rather than trying to keep up the house.

“Stop that.” Bond nudges him.

“What?”

“Thinking.”

“That’s a little difficult. Technically, it’d be impossible.”

Bond sighs and rolls over on his stomach. Q admires the slope of his back, the way the sheet slips down over his backside. The Russian woman left deep scratches down his back. Q traces one with his fingertip.

“What’re you thinking about then?” Bond yawns.

“Earlier. You left.”

“Your house is fucking cold.”

“True.” Q concedes. He doesn't always notice.

Bond’s hand slides up his thigh. “Satisfied?”

“Almost.” Q says sleepily.

Bond chuckles and straddles him, gazing down at him. “You know, if you report me for this, M will have my head.”

“Why would I report you?” Q’s hand rest on his knees. “You still look good in a suit.”

Bond’s lips curve upward in a smile. “Damn good.”

“Well, I don’t want to stroke your ego too much.”

“I wish you’d stroke something.” Bond growls.

“I bet you were a thug in school.” Q says, but wraps his hand around Bond anyway.

“I bet you were a swot.” Bond retorts.

Q smiles, but doesn’t say.

* * *

A pattern forms.

Every morning Q goes off to headquarters while Bond’s still sleeping. When Bond eventually rouses himself, he goes for long runs in the park. In the evening he’s loitering around Q’s house when Q gets home in the evenings, unless he’s gone back at his own flat.

Sometimes Q makes it back before Bond. He brews his tea and works until Bond comes in from running, sweaty and cold, draping himself over Q as though it’s normal.

Perhaps it is. For them.

* * *

Bond slips Q’s legs over his shoulders as he swallows Q’s cock. Q’s body thrums with pleasure as Bond takes him deeper and deeper, nuzzling at his pubic hair. Bond is good at this, even if this skill doesn’t get aired as much as his other talents.

Q pants, his chest slick with sweat.

Bond drags every last sound he can from him, until Q’s body trembles. Bond pulls off, rolling Q over to enter him in one quick thrust. Q arches back against him, until he comes with a quiet cry that make Bond’s cock pulse. He grips Q’s hips all the tighter before he finishes.

He slumps atop Q, pinning him to the bed.

“You are not a lightweight,” Q’s mouth is muffled.

Bond ignores him, comfortable where he is.

* * *

As soon as Bond wakes up, he slides back inside Q. Q stirs and Bond’s hands close on his wrists, holding there. He thrusts lazily, creating a delicious warm friction up and down Q’s spine.

“I still dream about you.” Bond whispers. “I dream about your hands.”

Q smiles into his sheets. 

* * *

“Where do you come from?” Bond asks, two fingers deep into Q's arse.

Q’s surprised by the question. “I, that’s hardly what’s relevant here.” What’s relevant is that Bond is working him open, and he should focus on that, not on Q’s past. It's hardly the best use of his time. They only have an hour before he has to be at the office.

“Why? I’ve told you about myself. Why not tell me?” Bond pushes deeper.

“You didn’t tell me voluntarily.” Q points out.

“Do you want me to make you come until you tell me?” Bond’s fingers move and Q stifles a gasp.

When he can speak again, Q inquires, “Why precisely do you want to know?”

“I’m curious.” Bond says lightly. It’s the truth. He wants to know about Q. How did he arrive here? Where did he come from? "Where did you go to school for starters?"

“Because you’d hate to think you had been held by sub-par intelligence.”

“You’re definitely not that.”

“Even if I told you I didn’t go to Oxford.”

Bond snorts. “ _You_ didn’t go to Oxford?”

Q just smiles.

“Perhaps you did, perhaps you didn't." Bond can't decide. "However, I think for some time you were privately educated.” Bond curls his fingers and Q’s breath shortens. 

He wishes Bond would stop talking.

Bond rolls him on his side, pulling Q against him. Q’s arm reaches blindly behind him, pulling Bond closer as they fuck in time, short rapid thrusts that leave them both breathless and spent.

* * *

Bond learns that sometimes Q likes sex to be rough, so he leaves marks on Q’s skin, faint imprints that let the world know that Bond was there.

He learns that the back of Q neck’s neck, the curves above his left elbow, and the backs of his ankles are places guaranteed to make Q shiver if Bond kisses him there.

He learns that Q can go for hours without talking, so deeply engrossed in his work that nothing reaches him.

He learns Q curls around him in his sleep, craving the touch then that he doesn’t require during the day.

He learns Q likes to have sex in the morning, as part of his morning routine. ("Helps me think," Q tells him. Bond's certainly not going to object.)

He learns Q’s sexual appetite is quietly voracious, finds Q still studies him, drinking in Bond’s responses.

He learns Q is soft, biting words and quick clever hands. He’s quiet discerning looks that leave Bond flustered, and lingering touches that always leave Bond wanting more.

* * *

It’s the last night of Bond’s suspension. They're at Q's for the night. 

Bond slips out of bed and goes to get his cigarettes. He can't sleep, so he takes them and goes down the stairs. For once the chill doesn't bother him.  He lights a cigarette and inhales. He had stopped smoking, but ever since Q, he finds the habit has crept back up on him. It clings to him yet. He stands naked at the front window, looking out at the London streets.

“You didn’t mind if anyone sees you?” Q asks. He, at least, pulled on his pajama bottoms before he came down the stairs.

Bond just glances at him over his shoulder. “That’s an odd question to ask. You saw me naked every day for how long?”

“That was different.”

“Understatement.” Bond says dryly. “Would you prefer I put something on?”

“No,” Q says.

If Bond turned to look, he’d see the silent lust in Q’s eyes that Bond knows all too well. He knows what he’s supposed to do with that. If this were anyone else, he would go to them, take them in his arms and kiss them until matters progressed back to bed.

Does that work with Q? Bond’s not sure. He stays put, wavering.

“Whatever you’re considering, just do it,” Q says, “I’m going to make some tea.”

Bond stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray that Q provided once he realized Bond hadn’t stopped smoking, and follows Q. Q’s standing at the kitchen counter, pouring his tea. Bond hesitates, then goes up behind Q, sliding his arms around him, burying his face in the crook of Q’s neck.

Q just stands there, stirring his tea. “That’s what you were thinking of doing?”

“Surprised?” Bond murmurs, sliding his hand up to cup Q’s neck.

“A little.” Q leans into that hand.

Bond strokes him there, pressing a kiss in his hair.“You don’t particularly regret how we met, do you?”

Q considers the prudence in answering. That hand could easily tighten. He answers anyway. “No. We met, didn’t we?”

“No conscience whatsoever then?” Bond's thumb presses tightly into his skin, making Q harden.

“Not particularly,” Q admits. “No remorse and no conscience. We’ll probably work very well together.”

“It’s crossed my mind once or twice.” Bond turns his head to cup Q's jaw, kissing him until he arches up into Bond’s touch.

Bond pulls back. “It’s true, what I said before. I can’t get you out of my head, and worse, I’m no longer sure if I want to.”

Q turns to face him. “Do you regret it?” It's a foolish question, one he wouldn't usually ask, but there's something in Bond's eyes that makes him ask all the same.

Bond takes his time answering though, long enough that Q starts to almost regret the question, and when he finally speaks, “Job well done, I’d say,” is all Bond says.

His reply gives Q pause, but Bond kisses him again then, and Q lets the words slip away.

* * *

Bond returns to work and receives an immediate assignment.

He hesitates, tapping the folder against his thigh. Does he tell Q, or does he just go?

  
*  *  *

He debates the matter, standing at the bathroom sink as Q showers.

“I’m leaving for Lisbon tomorrow morning.” Bond says at last, reaching for his razor.

“Oh?” Q pokes his head out of the shower. “Ah, that’s what the microphone in the tie-clip was for.” He grins and closes the shower door once more.

Bond watches his form move behind the opaque glass, then sets the razor down again. He can shave tomorrow. Pulling the door open, he joins Q in the shower.

* * *

In the morning, Bond’s dressed and gone before Q wakes.

* * *

The Lisbon job is quick and dirty, leaving Bond with a relentless adrenaline rush he can’t shake.

When he arrives home again, his flat is empty. He leaves his bag there on the floor and heads out again.

* * *

Q opens the door to his house to find Bond stretched out on his sofa, drinking the whiskey that Bond supplied himself since Q never remembers to stock up.

“You’re back then. “ Q sets his bag down and hangs up his coat.

“So I am.” Bond stands in one fluid movement, straightening his tie. “Aren’t you going to welcome me back?”

Q leans in to smooth his thumb over Bond’s lower lip. “Welcome back, 007. Kindly keep your shoes off the cushions in the future.”

Bond bites at his thumb, catching Q’s wrist. “Call that a welcome?”

“Best I can do. Now, dinner. Shower. Bed.”

“Yes, mother,” Bond murmurs.

Q looks pained. “Please never address me like that again.”

“Or what,” Bond slides his teeth along Q’s wrist, grinning at him. “You’ll spank me?”

“Possibly.” Q pulls his wrist free. “Come on, I’m starving.”

Bond pulls his tie loose and follows. Q’s not the only one.

* * *

It doesn’t take long for M to observe the difference since Bond's return to duty. Bond seems more comfortable in his skin since his suspension. He’s returned to form, behaving admirably for once, at the top of his game.

As for Q, well, M’s studied Q’s file repeatedly. She knows more than she’s informed Bond, naturally, but there’s no cause for concern. If Bond wants to move ahead with this, let him. This is one pursuit, she’ll allow. For now, as long as Bond behaves.

* * *

Bond collects his handgun, tie-pin (it was handy in Lisbon; he claims he needs it again, so Q gives it to him with a sigh) and car-keys with the tracker attached to the keychain.

Q passes them over his desk, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “There you go.”

“See you when I get back.” Bond murmurs.

“I assume so.” Q tells him, impatient to get back to work.

Bond grins, and starts for the door.

“Oh, and 007,” Q calls after him. “Do try to bring the equipment back in one piece.”

“No guarantees, Q,” Bond throws it over his shoulder.

Q just smiles. Bond’s right. There are no guarantees, and he’s content with that.


End file.
